


Vacant Property

by HopeCoppice



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Amnesia, Buckle in it's likely to be a long one, Haunted bookshop, Human AU, Human Crowley (Good Omens), It all might be a little less AU than you think, M/M, Major character death is in fact a big warning, Other, Rule one the author lies, Tiny bit of ghost sex, also major character death is mostly just implied by the fact that Aziraphale is a ghost, but there might be flashbacks at some point, ghost Aziraphale, ghost au, some or all of these tags may be subject to change, there is no good way to tag this sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:06:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 21,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22284568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HopeCoppice/pseuds/HopeCoppice
Summary: Crowley is a Property Guardian, and he's happy to have a roof of any sort over his head. This particular roof looks pretty good, so he's not sure why his agency have warned him that most guardians don't stay long here.Inspired by a Tumblr post.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 330
Kudos: 337





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this post: <https://worse0mens.tumblr.com/post/188787843880/az-fells-definitely-haunted> and probably influenced by the beautiful [in the house we remain by commodorecliche](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20811797/chapters/49469135).
> 
> I have no idea how to tag this fic, so tags will change as we go. Enjoy!

It wasn’t as if it was the first time Crowley had had to move at short notice.

The first time, there’d been screaming, and crying, and pain, and barely time to shove a couple of jumpers and some underwear into his bag before he had to hit the road. At least, since he had a decent job, he’d been able to find a new place relatively quickly. He couldn’t afford a place of his own, but the idea of living with people - of trusting people in his space - made him feel sick, so he’d hammered increasingly desperate queries into the search engine on his work computer until, at last, he’d come across the concept of Property Guardians. A couple of weeks of (barely) sleeping in a locked toilet cubicle at the office - the only place nobody would check - and he’d managed to get his first guardianship.

It was an old warehouse, partially converted, and it gave him the creeps at night with its creaking corrugated iron roof and the way birds’ feet tapped their way across it in the dark hours before dawn, but he got to live there alone in exchange for calling security if anyone broke in. Nobody did, during his tenure - the light in the building seemed to put them off - but then the owners decided they were going to tear it down and build some ludicrously expensive flats, and Crowley found himself looking for a new residence. At least by that point he’d bought himself a suitcase, the type with wheels, and had accumulated a few more clothes to put in it.

His second guardianship was only ever meant to be short-term; an old lady had passed away and left the whole thing to her son, who lived overseas. Crowley kept the place up for a couple of months while the son made arrangements to come over and sell it, and then he moved on. He took one of the house's pot plants with him for company, and the owner didn't seem to have noticed yet. At least, Crowley hadn't heard anything about it.

Now he stood, case in one hand, a piece of paper with an address printed on it in the other, looking up at the worn and faded sign of an old bookshop. The description seemed to apply equally to both the shop - whose sign proclaimed that it had first been opened in that capacity over two hundred years ago - and the books inside it, clearly visible from the window. Strange that there were still so many books, but then there’d been all sorts of clutter left behind in his previous residence. He only hoped he had the right address. He checked again; yes, _Fell’s Antiquarian Bookshop,_ which was what it said on the legible portion of the sign, and the street number was correct, too. He pulled out the heavy brass key he’d been given and turned it in the lock, letting himself inside.

_Third time’s the charm?_ he caught himself thinking hopefully as he stepped inside, and immediately scolded himself for it. There was no _charm_ to be had here; it wasn’t as if he could luck out and get to stay forever, after all. That wasn’t how this worked. Still, he liked the old place immensely, even just from a glance at the former shop area. It was neat - if cluttered - and clean, and something about it just felt warm and homely. That was just as well; the representative of Angel Guardians - he’d chosen the agency because of the pun - had told him it might be vacant for some time.

“Probate issues, and now the executors are trying to sell it, but they just can’t seem to shift it.”

“Should I get comfortable, then? Is it likely to be a long stay?”

“Er, well. There have been quite a few guardians in over the last few months, and nobody’s stuck around for very long.”

“I’m persistent,” Crowley had assured her, and she’d wished him luck.

He didn’t think, looking around him, that he’d need luck. All he needed was for whatever problem the executors were having with buyers to last a good long while so he could get settled and start sorting himself out with something more permanent. He dragged his suitcase further inside and let the door swing closed behind him, turning to lock it as the tinkle of the little bell above the door reminded him that would-be customers might try to enter.

“I’m afraid Sundays are as Tuesdays, my dear boy. We’re quite closed.”

Crowley dropped the key with a yelp.


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley turned slowly and found himself face to face with a man in a suit worthy of a moderately fancy wedding party.

“I’m supposed to call security if I find anyone in here,” he stuttered, wondering how the hell he’d got in. Perhaps there was a broken window somewhere round the back; he’d have to check. If something was broken and he didn’t call into the office about it first thing, they’d try to blame him for breaking it and he’d end up paying for the damages.

“Security!  _ You’re  _ the intruder. I have every right to be here; I am the legal occupant.”

Crowley could only stare blankly at him for a few moments, and then he realised what must have happened. 

"Oh, OK. They've double booked us. Right. Mix-up, I get it. Look, I'm sorry to intrude, but it's too late to call the office now, and I've got nowhere to go. Do you mind if I crash here for tonight - in here, or wherever you like, you can lock a door between us, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable-”

“Well, I suppose- you really have nowhere else to go?” Crowley shook his head, and the man pursed his lips in disapproval. Somehow, for the first time in his life, Crowley didn’t feel as though it was aimed at him. “Fine, then. There’s a sofa in the backroom that’s fairly comfortable. I’ll open a bottle of wine.”

That was how Crowley found himself drinking with a stranger in the back room of a bookshop he would have been only too happy to call home.

“If you’re going to be my guest for the night, I suppose I should ask what you’d like me to call you,” the stranger asked, opening a bottle of wine that looked to be over a hundred years old. Crowley almost stopped him - he shouldn’t be wasting such a good vintage on a stranger - but it was already open before he could speak, and it had probably just been lying around the shop anyway. He hoped the man wouldn’t get in trouble for taking it. Still. The damage was done now, and there was no sense in refusing to make the most of it.

“Crowley. Er- Anthony, really, but I prefer Crowley.”

“Of course. I’m Aziraphale, if you don’t mind the informality of a first name.”

“Why would I mind?” Crowley smiled and raised his glass in salute. “Well, thank you for letting me stay, Aziraphale.” He took a sip. “And for this wine, which is fantastic.”

“Thank you for your company, then, Crowley,” Aziraphale responded, “it can be a little dull in here alone, of an evening.”

Crowley had the vague idea that he should be more worried, that he should fear ulterior motives from this stranger who was already offering to top his glass up, but he just couldn’t seem to find that anxiety within himself. Aziraphale seemed harmless enough - as, he was sure, many sinister people did - and he’d had no idea Crowley was about to crash into his life, so it wasn’t as if he was scheming against him.

“Have you been here long, then?” He’d thought perhaps Aziraphale had been scheduled to move in on the same day as Crowley himself, by mistake, but it now seemed that he’d been there for some time.

“Oh, years, dear boy. Years. I’d never want to leave, you know. I always thought I’d like to have a bookshop.”

“Years, wow. Yeah, I suppose you’d get attached.” Crowley did his best  _ not  _ to get attached to his guardianship properties; it would only lead to pain in the long run. Aziraphale seemed to think that was worth it. Maybe he was just braver than Crowley. 

"Where will you go, tomorrow?” Aziraphale asked, some time between the first and second bottle of wine, and Crowley shrugged. Everything felt a little fuzzy - he’d have suspected that the wine had been tampered with, except that Aziraphale had been drinking from the same bottle and seemed barely tipsy.

“Dunno. Wherever they send me, I ‘spose, just got to hope somewhere’s vacant. Sure it will be, there’s loads of empty buildings sitting around London.”

“Are there?” Aziraphale had to be joking; he was a property guardian, he knew the score as well as anyone. “But there are people on the streets!”

“Yeah. Well, you know. Property guardianship’s for professionals who need cheap rents, they don’t let everyone do it. And it’s not like the owners care about the homeless, they just want their second home or their tax break-”

“That’s appalling.” Aziraphale stared down into his glass for a few moments, then sighed. “And if nowhere’s available?”

“Dunno.” Crowley shrugged. “Sleep at the office on Monday night, I suppose. Don’t know about tomorrow.”

“Well, of course you must stay here, if they don’t have anywhere for you. There’s plenty of room.”

“You don’t know me from Adam, I could be a serial killer. I could be a… some sort of international book thief.”

“You’re not,” Aziraphale told him, barely a question in his tone, and Crowley shook his head.

“No. But you can’t just invite me to stay for however long- you can’t-”

“I believe I just did,” Aziraphale corrected him mildly, “if you have need of it. Now, dear boy, let me make up this sofa for you. You ought to be comfortable.”

The sheets Aziraphale laid across the sofa looked so old Crowley thought a museum might like the chance to take them off his hands, and the blanket he spread over them was garishly tartan-patterned, but he was grateful all the same. Aziraphale hovered for a while, making sure Crowley had all that he needed, reminding him where things were and assuring him that he should help himself to anything he needed from the kitchen, before excusing himself - not to bed, as Crowley had expected, but to the shop to find some reading material for the night. He padded apologetically back through and up the stairs some fifteen minutes later, and Crowley watched him quietly from his place on the sofa. The man was a mystery, and he was unfortunately likeable. It was hard to resent him for having beaten Crowley to this rather nice property, especially given how at ease Aziraphale seemed in it. He really must have been here for years, which made the administrative error at the agency even more unfathomable. How had this happened?

For all he’d said to Aziraphale earlier, Crowley was worried. Even in his rather drunken state, he knew that this could be a problem; if the agency couldn’t find him anywhere new immediately, he was out of luck and out on the streets. Aziraphale’s offer was very kind, but he couldn’t possibly take him up on it - they were strangers, and Aziraphale had been at least a little inebriated when he’d said it, and he couldn’t impose. Perhaps, at least, he could leave some of his more cumbersome possessions here while he worked out a next step.

He lay there, stomach churning, staring up at the ceiling, for several minutes until, suddenly, a feeling of utter peace washed over him and gently nudged him into sleep. 


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Crowley woke with a start and a crick in his neck. _Where am I?_ Oh, that was right. His new guardianship property - or rather, what _should_ have been his new property, only they’d double-booked him.

Aziraphale pottered through on the way to his little kitchen and offered Crowley a cup of tea and toast. The property had been fitted with modern kitchen appliances - it had to be, before Angel could offer it to their guardians - but Aziraphale bypassed the toaster and tucked the bread under the grill, muttering something about newfangled technology even as he put an old tin kettle on the hob to boil. Crowley considered offering to make it instead - there was an electric kettle right there, and it would be quicker - but he didn’t want to intrude on the man’s morning routine any more than he already had.

He ate quickly, while Aziraphale was still regarding his own breakfast with something resembling reluctance, and excused himself into the hallway to make the necessary phone call to the office.

“Hi, er, it’s Anthony Crowley. I was given the keys for Fell’s bookshop in Soho, yesterday? Only it seems like there’s another guardian already here, have we been double-booked?”

“Oh, no! I’m really sorry about that, Mr Crowley. Let me just check the system-” There was a sound of keys tapping. “Well, I can’t find anyone else listed for the property. You’re sure he’s one of ours?”

“Pretty sure, yeah. He was very clear about being the legal occupant. Unless he’s an owner?”

“Unlikely - the shop’s been going through probate for years now, it’s held by Heaven Holdings. Maybe it’s just been filed wrong - I can check under his name, instead?”

“Oh. Yeah, hang on, let me just - introductions were a bit rushed- hold on.”

He stuck his head back around the door into the kitchen, and Aziraphale looked up from where he was washing his plate in the sink.

“Er- they want to know your name.”

“Well, really. It’s _clearly_ painted on the front of the shop-”

“Er, Janice, was it? Sorry, I’m going to have to call you back.” He disconnected the call and rounded on Aziraphale. “Are you _completely insane_ , or do you just think I am?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean-”

“You expect me to believe that you’re A.Z. Fell? The A.Z. Fell who opened this shop in the year 1800?”

“Yes, I am. This is my shop-”

“Come off it, mate. You’d have to be about three hundred years old-”

“I- well, really.” Aziraphale looked genuinely confused. “It’s 1862. Your grasp of arithmetic is terrible, my dear-”

“It’s 2019. If you’re some sort of con artist, you really should have thought it through better than this. I’m calling the police, they might be able to point you to some sort of service-”

“This is _my shop,_ ” the man - whoever he really was, because Aziraphale could easily just be what the _A_ in _A.Z. Fell_ stood for - repeated firmly, but there was something rather frightened about the look in his eyes now. “I _live_ here.”

“Not any more-”

“I- I need to open up,” he said, and went about doing just that. 

Crowley watched in baffled silence, knowing he should call someone but oddly reluctant to do so. It seemed to settle this madman, going through the apparently-familiar motions of unlocking the door, turning the sign, sorting through books to return them to the shelves they belonged on, fiddling with the ancient till. He must have been doing this for some time, Crowley thought; perhaps he _was_ one of the previous property guardians. But then, surely someone at Angel should have known the shop had been trading?

After about an hour, it became clear that the shop _wasn’t_ trading; indeed, the man who claimed to be Mr. A. Z. Fell seemed quite determined not to have any customers at all, and for the most part the population of London seemed equally determined not to venture into the place. Crowley fidgeted anxiously with his phone, knowing he ought to call someone to have this poor, confused gentleman removed - it was his job, it was his _whole job_ to make sure nobody but him was in here - but something held him back. There was something distinctly odd about all this, from the way that the other man seemed to be moving the same books from one shelf to another and back again to the way he kept looking up at the door in response to noises Crowley couldn’t hear. It left Crowley feeling faintly uneasy, and he couldn’t help but be sympathetic to the stranger who’d let him stay - although, of course, by rights it should have been Crowley who’d let _him_ stay.

He made a decision and called Janice back.

“Hi, Crowley again. Sorry about that, it, ah… it turns out a friend of mine hired someone to pull a prank on me. Sorry to have wasted your time, I’ve told him it can’t happen again.”

“See that it doesn’t,” Janice told him sternly, and then he heard a smile creep into her voice. “Still, we can’t be responsible for our friends’ weird quirks, can we?”

“No,” Crowley agreed, watching Aziraphale absent-mindedly walk through an end table as he moved between shelves. A trick of the light, no doubt. “No, we can’t.”

Aziraphale closed the shop up about two hours after he’d opened it, and by then Crowley had had time to piggyback next door’s WiFi and look the place up on his phone.

_A.Z. Fell’s Antiquarian Booksellers,_ the first page he pulled up read, _1 star. Door was open so I went in for a look, but nobody was there. Thought the owner had popped out, so I stuck around to look at some books, but there was a really weird vibe in there. I swear a book pulled itself right out of my hand and shoved itself back on the shelf. Would not recommend._

_1 star,_ the next review on the page added, _walked in, just felt this utter terror until I went to leave. Once I got outside the door slammed and locked behind me. I know it sounds insane but that place is super haunted. Local UrbEx group said they’ve been eyeing it for years but the location’s too well trafficked. Plus you can just walk right in, lame video much? Anyway if you want books, don’t bother._

He’d looked the shop up again, adding ‘UrbEx’ to his query, and soon found a blog post on the site of a group of ‘urban explorers’ - trespassers, as they were known in Crowley’s circles.

_A.Z. Fell’s - the one that got away._

_I wish we had better news for you, guys, but this place is cursed in ways we’ve never encountered before. Specifically, it seems like the universe doesn’t want us getting in here._

_Yes, the property is protected by a Property Guardianship scheme, but that’s never stopped us before - many guardians are happy to invite us over as guests and then vanish for a few hours, leaving us to it, as long as we don’t reveal identities or dates._

_This shop, though, has been a tough nut to crack, mostly because the guardians kept changing over. Still, the last one we spoke to was pretty positive about our work - she’s an associate member of our crew and actually contacted us before she even moved in, so we could get in there as soon as possible. We were pretty excited to finally have a wander around the back rooms of Fell’s bookshop, which has stood largely unoccupied since the mysterious and violent death of its original owner in 1862. We were raring to go - and then, only three days after moving in, our contact moved out. When we spoke to her, she just told us she was never going back there again, and we shouldn’t either._

_We've heard all sorts of stories about creepy experiences people have had on the shop floor - and who keeps opening the door anyway? - but with our inside woman gone, we're going to have to reluctantly give up on exploring this place properly for now. Sorry! We're as disappointed as you are._

Well, that was ridiculous. The way people online were talking, anyone would think the shop was some sort of horror film set. Foreboding feelings and paranormal occurrences? That was ridiculous; Crowley had never been anywhere that felt so welcoming.

Aziraphale shut the door, and somebody in the street jumped, hurrying away with a frightened glance over his shoulder. Aziraphale flipped the sign over to ‘closed’ and locked the door before turning back to Crowley.

“There. I much prefer the quiet days.”

“Can’t be great for sales, though,” Crowley guessed.

“Oh, I never sell a book if I can help it. They are my closest companions, you know; I couldn’t part with them.”

“Right. Right, yeah. Er, look, I spoke to the office, and… would you mind if I took you up on your offer to stay for a bit?”

“You’re quite welcome, my dear; I’d appreciate the company. I usually keep to myself, but you seem very nice. Oh- you can have the bedroom, if you like. I rarely sleep, so it’s only right-”

“I’m not putting you out of your bed-”

“No, no, I insist. Would you like to put your possessions upstairs?”

“Er… yeah, all right. Thanks. Lead the way.”

Aziraphale did, forgetting to open the door that led to the stairs, and Crowley blinked several times to try to clear his head. No, that had definitely happened. Aziraphale had definitely just walked directly _through_ a solid door. Crowley hesitated for several seconds before opening it and following him up the stairs.


	4. Chapter 4

Crowley wasn’t quite sure what the proper protocol was for living with a ghost who didn’t know they were a ghost, but he was reluctant to point out any of Aziraphale’s oddities to him. Over the course of the next week, Crowley got up each morning and had breakfast while Aziraphale squinted suspiciously at the toaster, then went to work. He sat at his computer and almost convinced himself that he’d imagined all the oddities, and then he went home to find that Aziraphale was walking through solid objects again, or rearranging one shelf while another rearranged itself behind him, or loudly berating a customer who couldn’t seem to hear him telling her to put the book back and leave the premises.

“Excuse me,” Crowley interrupted, upon walking into this last bizarre scene on Friday evening, “we’re closed. Just left the door open for some air, you know. So if you could put the book back-”

Aziraphale lost patience and yanked it from the customer’s hands, and the woman went white.

“How can you stand it? Aren’t you scared?”

“Not even a little bit,” Crowley told her calmly, and he realised it was true. “If you don’t mind, I think we’re closing early today.”

“You’re mad. Mad!” And the woman scuttled away with barely more than a backward glance towards the book Aziraphale was now replacing on a high shelf. Crowley grimaced in sympathy; he could imagine how that looked, if you couldn’t see Aziraphale - and nobody else _did_ seem to see him. Crowley wasn’t sure why he was different, but since he was, he supposed it fell to him to break the bad news to Aziraphale.

“I’m locking up,” he told him, “I think we need to talk about something.”

“Oh, certainly, dear boy. Don’t forget to turn the sign. I’ll make us some tea.”

By the time Aziraphale had finished going through the laborious process of heating his tin kettle, brewing the tea in a pot, and pouring them each a cup, Crowley had locked up and been sitting at the kitchen table for several minutes.

“There you go, my dear boy. What’s troubling you? Perhaps I can help.”

“Er. I just… what do you think happens, when we die?”

“Oh, well… I’d like to hope we go to Heaven, if we’ve been good people. You’re not unwell?”

“Hm? No, no - nothing like that. Er. OK. Let’s- do you remember when I told you it was 2019?”

“What was?”

“The year. This year, right now.”

“Oh, did you? What a pleasantly ridiculous notion. The year is 1862, of course.”

“Right, yeah, OK… agree to disagree, there. But what do you remember about 1862?”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale didn’t seem to be trying to be difficult; he was frowning in genuine confusion. Crowley sighed.

“All right… let’s start with something simple. Do you have any friends? Could you tell me their names? What they do for a living? Anything?”

“Of course I have friends. What a question!” But although Crowley waited patiently for an answer, Aziraphale seemed to be drawing a blank. “I think… perhaps _one_ friend, more than the rest… I don’t… I’m afraid his occupation slips my mind, my dear. He mustn’t have been around in a while.”

“What does he look like, then?”

“Er… I think… he wears a particularly tall hat?”

“It all seems a bit vague, doesn’t it? Like it’s far away?”

Aziraphale fell silent, staring down into his untouched cup of tea as if he might find answers rising with the steam. Crowley felt bad for pressing him, but he also knew they had to sort this out if they were going to continue to share the space. Even more so, if they weren’t, because if Aziraphale didn’t cut down on the overt haunting, he would have to deal with a never-ending procession of terrified strangers who wouldn’t interact with him.

“Tell me about this shop, then. What do you do here?”

“Well, I… I _live_ here.” He frowned, as if he’d just remembered something that didn’t quite fit into the picture he was painting in his mind.

“Mm?”

“I live here,” Aziraphale said again, and then, with a terrible little sigh that made Crowley’s heart ache, “I- I think I died here.”

For a moment, that bizarre statement hung in the silence, and then Crowley sighed.

“Yeah.” He reached out to place his hands over Aziraphale’s, where they rested on the outside of his mug, and his fingers met only a warm ceramic surface. “Yeah, I think you did.”

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, really. Perhaps that Aziraphale would panic upon realising that he was, technically, dead, or that he would have questions. Crowley had even found an old newspaper clipping online that had mentioned the circumstances of A.Z. Fell’s passing, in case he had to be the one to give him what details were available - but Aziraphale didn’t ask. Instead, he looked up from his mug and, with a wobbly sort of smile, met Crowley’s eyes.

“Oh, dear. I’m afraid I’ve been a bit of an old silly, haven’t I?”

“Do you… remember how it happened?” Crowley prompted gently, curious and concerned all at once. Aziraphale shook his head.

“Bits and pieces. I think I’ve been pushing it away, rather, trying not to accept my fate, and it’s all become a bit hazy over the years. The- 2019, you say? Anno Domini?”

“Er, yeah. So… a century and a half, just over.”

“Right. Right, yes… well. Er, I can tell you what I remember, if you’d like. Oh, but you’re probably tired of me hanging around, acting as though I still own the place - if you’d like me to leave, or- well, I don’t know if I _can_ leave, but I’m sure I could tuck myself into a cupboard or something and pretend I’m not here-”

“No! This is your home,” Crowley reminded him, “and I enjoy your company. You don’t have to tell me anything, if you don’t want to, but I don’t mind listening if you do.”

“That’s very nice of you-”

“I’m not nice.” Aziraphale looked shocked and appalled by that statement, so Crowley shrugged and tried to turn it into a joke. “Just nosy. Go on, if you want.”

For a moment, it seemed as though Aziraphale _didn’t_ want - and then, just as Crowley was about to ask him about London traffic just to change the subject, he spoke.

“I was coming home from a walk in the park, I think. I was out of sorts; I wanted nothing more than to go up to bed - well, I’d been running this shop for sixty-two years, so I can only imagine I was something of a grumpy old man by then, though of course nobody really sees themselves that way. But… somebody followed me into the shop. Perhaps two somebodies, or… more… it may only have been one. But I remember blood. By some miracle, I don’t think any of it hit the books-” Crowley smiled softly; how like Aziraphale, to worry about the books. “-but it was on the floor, and not where I needed it, and when I came to, I was alone. A few things had been moved, but nothing had been taken… except, apparently, my life. I couldn’t leave the premises, and I couldn’t seem to communicate with anyone who came _in_ \- precious few did, of course, and they left quickly. My kitchen filled up with things I didn’t understand, and people kept walking in as if it was _theirs_ , touching the books, getting in my way-”

“Property guardians, like me,” Crowley confirmed. “And they couldn’t see you?”

“I don’t know. They didn’t like me taking my books from them, or making tea - oh, heavens. They must have thought they were being haunted, I suppose.”

“I think, technically, they were.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “But I can see you. So maybe, if you don’t mind me staying, I can help. At least I can keep other people away.”

“Of course you can stay- oh, but will you help me to remember? I need to remember what I am, I- I don’t want to forget, please don’t let me forget again.” He seemed more anxious about this than about anything else Crowley had told him about his death, and it tore at Crowley’s heart to see the terror in his eyes. Crowley understood; he, too, had always been afraid that one day he would forget something vitally important, that he would forget who he was or what he ought to be doing.

“I’ll help,” he told him, “I promise I’ll remind you.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I'm putting out chapters pretty fast at the moment, but I will eventually run out of pre-written chapters and it's a busy week coming up, so my apologies if updates get a bit sporadic in the future. I hope you enjoy this one, though!

The next morning, Crowley managed to intercept Aziraphale on his way to open the front door.

“Could we stay closed today, do you think? Nobody’s expecting the shop to open, anyway, and I thought perhaps we could spend some time together.”

“You’d like to spend time with _me?”_ Aziraphale seemed astonished by the very idea. “I must admit, I’d assumed you’d want to see your other friends.”

“Nope. I’d rather talk to you.” It was true, and not just because Crowley didn’t have many other friends to choose from. “Unless you’d rather have some space?”

“No, no, I’d love to- I mean- I certainly have no objection to keeping you company. Only… well, I’m afraid people _will_ be expecting the shop to be open, my dear. It’s all on the sign-”

“A sign from 1862, angel.” Oh. Oh, that had come out of nowhere. What did he think he was doing, giving a ghost he barely knew a pet name? He hurried on, hoping that Aziraphale wouldn’t notice. “Do you remember what we talked about yesterday?”

“Yesterday-? Oh.” His shoulders slumped in defeat. “2019. And I’m… yes. I do apologise, my dear, it seems I’d forgotten.”

“That’s OK.” Crowley waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll keep reminding you, if you want. But let’s get to know each other, shall we?”

They spent the day side by side on the sofa where Crowley had slept, the night he’d arrived. As their conversation became more relaxed and more animated -

“And really, I’ve never _seen_ such a lewd display of dancing-”

“Be glad you don’t haunt a nightclub, then, it’d make your hair curl. Er. More.”

\- Crowley couldn’t help but notice that they were both creeping closer to the middle of the cushion, until at last Aziraphale’s knee bumped his own and the ghost looked down.

“Oh! Oh, I do apologise, my dear-”

“It’s OK. I, er. I don’t mind.” The truth was, the slightest point of contact between them felt as though it was sending a warm, fizzing sort of feeling directly to Crowley’s heart. It was probably just a reaction to touching a ghost, he told himself. The fact that, had Aziraphale been alive, Crowley might be well on his way to falling hopelessly in love with all his little foibles had nothing to do with it.

He could feel himself blushing; he hurried to change the subject.

“How is it that I can feel you, but sometimes you go straight through things?”

“Do I?” Apparently, that was news to Aziraphale. “Have I?”

“You forget to open doors before you go through them, sometimes. That end table in the shop, you walk through that almost every time you have to pass it. And, er, yesterday, I tried to put my hands on yours and went right through.” As he spoke, Aziraphale’s knee shifted slightly, and Crowley’s leg turned icy cold. He leapt back. “Oh, and just then-”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to - did I hurt you, my dear?”

_My dear._ The words filled him with a warmth he didn’t care to examine too closely. “No, no. I’m fine. I just, er, give me a second, pins and needles.” He hobbled out into the shop, trying to stretch the odd sensation out of his leg, and found himself facing the very end table that seemed to be Aziraphale’s blind spot.

_I wonder if it used to be somewhere else,_ he thought to himself, and curiosity led him to call over his shoulder to his late host.

“Aziraphale, d’you mind if I move this table?”

“It’s your home now, dear. You must do as you like,” came the reply from the backroom.

“I’ll put it back when I’m done-” He moved the pile of books atop the table carefully, setting them on a nearby chair, and then nudged the table about a foot to the left of where it was. That felt like the right place to put it, somehow.

Something caught his eye, a stain on the floorboards beneath the table, and Crowley stooped to examine it before he realised what it was.

“Would you like any help, de-? _Oh.”_ Aziraphale sounded as though he’d had the wind knocked out of him, and Crowley felt much the same way himself. The stain under the table - no doubt the reason it had been moved in the first place - was a dark, stubborn red, too rusty in hue to be wine.

“Blood,” Crowley told him stupidly, “I suppose they couldn’t get the stain out.”

_“My_ blood,” Aziraphale confirmed sadly, “it must be, mustn’t it?”

For a while, all they could do was stare at it; Crowley reached out to put a hand on Aziraphale’s arm and it passed straight through him. They both flinched.

“Sorry. I’m used to you being mostly sort of solid-”

“Do you think-” Aziraphale took a deep breath. “Do you think, if I touched it, I might remember more?”

“Er, I dunno.” It hadn’t occurred to him, but perhaps Aziraphale knew more about this ghost thing than he consciously realised. Perhaps being dead did grant you some sort of psychic abilities, or… perhaps this was just something Aziraphale needed to do. “D’you want to try?”

Aziraphale didn’t answer with words, just lowered himself carefully to his knees and pressed one trembling hand to the stained floorboards. He frowned, then pressed harder, his fingers passing right through into the wood. At last, he withdrew them with a sigh that might have been disappointment or relief.

“Nothing.”

“Oh, well,” Crowley soothes, “that might be a blessing. Imagine if you’d touched it and, I don’t know, disappeared into the next life, or something.”

“That would have been quite frightening,” Aziraphale agreed, “although I imagine it would have improved your life considerably.”

“No, it wouldn’t.” Aziraphale was shaking his head as he got back to his feet, and that wouldn’t do. “No, wait, hang on, Aziraphale. It really wouldn’t. You know that, right? You’re not… you’re not an inconvenience.”

“Oh. Well, that’s very kind of you-”

“I’m not _kind._ I’m not being _kind,_ Aziraphale, I-” He realised, almost too late, that he was being a sentimental fool, and did his best to rein in the outpouring of affection he’d stumbled into. “I’d miss you, if you were gone. I really would.”

“Nonsense, my dear. You hardly know me; you’d be just fine.”

“I’d _miss_ you,” Crowley repeated firmly, “and I’d rather you didn’t put it to the test without warning me.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale’s cheeks flushed with blood which, by rights, had no business moving around his body at all. “Oh, well… thank you. But I assure you, I haven’t the faintest idea how to, er, _move on,_ as it were - even if I wanted to. And I don’t. This is my home, and the company has vastly improved of late.”

“Well.” Crowley ducked his head awkwardly. “Good. That’s settled then. Want me to put the table back?”

“Er- if it bothers you, my dear, by all means - but I might not walk through it so often if it was where it was supposed to be.”

“I’ll leave it, then, as long as you don’t mind the stain. I can give it a scrub-”

“No- no.” Aziraphale put a hand on his arm, then, and it looked as though he was exerting some not insubstantial effort to ensure that it remained solid enough to be felt. “If you don’t mind. It might help me remember. I don’t want to _forget_ what I am.”

“Then it stays.” Crowley smiled at him. “Let me know if you change your mind about it, but until then, it’ll all be just fine where it is.”

Aziraphale smiled softly back at him and wandered off to find something to read.


	6. Chapter 6

It was getting late the following night when Crowley looked up from his glass of wine and dared to ask Aziraphale a question.

“Is it weird, being a ghost?”

“I’m sorry, dear?”

“I’m not trying to be nosy. But it’s got to be a bit strange. All that walking through things, and- and do you eat? I’ve seen you make food, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat anything-”

“I eat on occasion,” Aziraphale told him defensively, “not much, but- it’s only that it doesn’t seem to _taste_ of anything, and I did love how things tasted.”

“You must miss it. Being alive, I mean. Or- I mean- do you?”

“I suppose… in many ways, not much has changed. I don’t remember doing very much with my existence, when I was alive, and I certainly don’t do much with it now.”

“You keep your books, and you make wonderful conversation,” Crowley argued, “and I imagine you did that in life, too.”

“Well, yes, I suppose so. I did enjoy walking in St James’ Park, I’m sure of that. I don’t suppose that’s even there any more, if it’s been so many years.”

“No, it is. Can’t you go and look?”

“I can’t leave the shop, dear boy.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

It wasn’t until three days later, when he had to put on headphones in the office to block out his colleagues’ lively conversation about _The Exorcist_ , that Crowley had a brilliant idea. At least, he thought it _might_ be brilliant. He’d have to run it past Aziraphale to be sure.

“I’m sorry, my dear. I don’t think I can have heard you properly.”

“No, I think you did.”

“Humour me. If you wouldn’t mind repeating yourself…”

“I said, what if you possessed me?”

“Yes, that’s what I thought you said.” 

Aziraphale drifted into the kitchen - it was strange, how Crowley could watch his legs going through the motions of walking, and yet still see that they weren’t quite connecting with the floor - and drifted back in ten minutes later with a cup of tea, which he carefully placed in front of Crowley.

“Quite out of the question, my dear boy.”

“Why? Can’t you do that sort of thing?”

“I don’t know. I might be able to- but I wouldn’t, even if I knew how to.”

“Why not? I’m offering.”

“Yes. Yes, you are, aren’t you?” Aziraphale fixed him with a thoughtful look. “It’s still out of the question. I’d have to- to go _inside_ you, and I’ve seen how you react when I do that by _accident_.”

Crowley could feel his cheeks flooding with hot blood, which at least meant it wasn’t rushing anywhere else at the notion of Aziraphale being inside him. He knew the ghost didn’t mean it in a sexual way - he was _Victorian_ , for goodness’ sake, or at least he’d died in the Victorian era, and Crowley had heard all about how prudish those people were - but it didn’t stop Crowley’s mind from wandering. 

It was disgusting; he was disgusted with himself. Aziraphale was _dead_ , had been dead for over a hundred years, and Crowley had no business fantasising about him. He had no right to lie in Aziraphale’s bed and imagine the touch of his hands on desperate, feverish skin, to wonder if they could kiss without Aziraphale losing control of his tangibility and slipping right through him. Aziraphale certainly harboured no such interest in _him_ ; Crowley had to get his mind out of the gutter and focus on the matter at hand. Which was…

“I just thought perhaps you’d like to see what the world’s like, now. You know. Out there. With- with me, or at least... I thought maybe if you were in my body-”

“I follow the logic, my dear, and it’s very kind-”

“Not kind.”

“-of you to think of me, but… well, I wouldn’t want to risk hurting you. You’ve come to mean a great deal to me in, in a very short time, and I- if- I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”

“Oh.” Crowley sighed. “Yeah, I suppose that’s… I mean. We’d probably explode, anyway.”

“Probably,” Aziraphale agreed, though he looked rather bemused by the idea.

“Maybe-” Crowley hesitated, but it was too late to stop now. “Maybe we could test it, a bit. We could, er… well, we could hold hands, and see- see what happens if you slip through a bit.”

“That’s-” But Aziraphale didn’t seem to have any argument against it, and so he reached out a hand.

Crowley took it and marvelled at the fact that he was holding hands with a ghost, and yet he could feel solid muscle beneath his thumb, the skin just a degree or two colder than his own. Aziraphale felt real, and alive, and a phantom pulse raced beneath the surface.

He didn’t think about it; he just leaned in, drawn by some ineffable longing, and Aziraphale met him halfway. For a moment, Aziraphale’s lips pressed against his, and then there was a sensation of icy cold, pins and needles surging through Crowley’s mouth, and before he knew what was happening the old bookseller was throwing himself backwards.

“I’m sorry- I’m so sorry, I don’t know what came over me- you obviously don’t- and if the police-”

“I do. I want- and it’s not illegal any more- Aziraphale, wait!” But he was too late; Aziraphale had run headlong through a wall, no doubt to hide in a bookcase, and Crowley felt too dizzy to chase him. He sat at the table and waited for the tingling in his lips to subside, heart racing, mind rushing.

Aziraphale had kissed him. Aziraphale thought _Crowley_ didn’t want him. Crowley _did_ want him. But Aziraphale was a ghost. He was a _ghost_ , he’d been dead for longer than Crowley had been alive - longer than anyone Crowley _knew_ had been alive - and it was all so very wrong. But loving Aziraphale - and he did, he’d been falling deeper and deeper in love with him since the moment he’d been welcomed into his home - felt right. It _felt_ right, and Crowley only wished he could make Aziraphale see that. If he wasn’t interested, that was fine, Crowley would cope, but if he thought _Crowley_ wasn’t interested… Well, Crowley would have to set him straight.

He walked into the middle of the shop floor - avoiding the bloodstain out of habit - and called out.

“Aziraphale. Please. Come and talk to me.” There was silence, and for a moment Crowley was certain the spirit had left entirely, that he’d somehow crossed over just to avoid Crowley. “Aziraphale? You’re going to have to- I can’t find you.” He fought to hide the panic that was surging through him at the thought. “Have you gone? Aziraphale!”

“I’m here,” said a quiet voice behind him, and Crowley whirled around to find Aziraphale standing there, looking anywhere but at him. “I can’t go anywhere, I’m afraid.”

“I don’t want you gone-” He reached out, impulsively, to grab Aziraphale’s hands, and was glad to find them solid in his grasp. “I’m sorry for kissing you without- well, I should have asked first. Especially- I don’t even know if you’re- I know in your day-”

“There’s no need to apologise on that front,” Aziraphale told him, now staring fixedly at their joined hands. “Homosexuals did exist in my day, you know.”

“I know they- but I didn’t- look, I’m sorry, this is my first time trying to negotiate a relationship with someone from _another century-_ ” He realised what he’d said as Aziraphale’s eyes snapped up to his. “I mean- I- well, shit. Yeah. I want to kiss you again, if that’s all right. I. I know we haven’t known each other long-”

“I’m dead,” Aziraphale pointed out softly, timidly. “You can do a lot better than me.”

“Complicates things,” Crowley admitted, then tugged gently at Aziraphale’s hands to draw him closer. “I like complicated.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale had never looked more alive; his eyes shone as he moved in again. “Then- perhaps-”

“Yes,” Crowley murmured, and their lips met again. This time, Aziraphale managed to maintain his corporeal state long enough to kiss him and back off again, blushing furiously.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” he admitted, “and I can’t take you out to dinner and court you properly-”

“I don’t care about any of that,” Crowley told him quietly, “I just needed you to know. When I look at you- when I hear your voice- my heart beats faster. I feel warm when you’re around. This… being here with you… it feels like home, already.”

“My heart doesn’t beat at all.” Aziraphale offered him a rueful smile. “But it doesn’t feel cold or lonely any more.”

They spent the next few hours going about the comfortable little routine they’d established, as if nothing had changed, except that sometimes Crowley would catch Aziraphale’s eye and then squeeze his hand, and once Aziraphale stepped in front of Crowley as he crossed the room so that he could steal a kiss. It wasn’t until the evening, when he was about to go to bed, that Crowley reached out to draw Aziraphale back towards him again.

“I mean it, though,” he said, as if the conversation had never moved on, “if you think you could go outside in my body-”

“Crowley-”

“-I’d be willing to try. That’s all. I’d like you to be able to see what’s out there. Things have changed-”

“I’ve never been much for change,” Aziraphale admitted, “and I really don’t know if it’s possible, anyway. Best leave it.”

“All right, then. Goodnight, angel.”

“Angel?” Aziraphale seemed quite taken aback. “Is that… do you mean me?”

“Oh.” Like before, it had just slipped out; he hadn’t meant to say it. “Er. Yeah, I suppose… you don’t like it?”

“No, no, I didn’t say that. I’ll get used to it.” And Aziraphale smiled at him, briefly turning into a being made of pure delight. “I’d _like_ to get used to it.”

“Good.” Crowley turned away to hide his own smile, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it was obvious in his posture, anyway. “Goodnight, then. _Angel._ ”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took a bit longer - I was trying to work out if there needed to be another chapter before this one but having tried it out, I think it works best as is.
> 
> This one is short - apologies - but I'll try to update again in the next day or two.

Two days later, Aziraphale turned to him with a sigh.

“Crowley. I quite understand if you’ve changed your mind. About- about me trying to go outside.”

“I haven’t.” He frowned. “Have _you_?”

“I think… yes, I think I’d like to try it.”

At first, it seemed, Aziraphale was still unwilling to possess Crowley - despite his repeated assurances that it was fine - so they tried some other ideas first. The first logical step seemed to be for Aziraphale to just walk out of the shop, but he dithered in the doorway for a very long time before attempting it.

“You don’t have to try this,” Crowley reminded him, but Aziraphale shook his head.

“No, no- I want to- it’s just- what if I go out there and I _move on,_ what if I can’t get back to you?”

“You don’t have t-” What he’d said suddenly registered with Crowley. “To- to _me_?” Not the shop. Not whatever semblance of _life_ Aziraphale had clung onto for all these years. _Crowley._

“Perhaps- will you keep hold of my hand?”

“Of course I’ll-” Aziraphale’s hand closed around his, suddenly, and then the ghost was striding forwards, through the doorway- and going nowhere. He made a couple of attempts at it, then stepped backwards with a frustrated sigh. “Well, drat. I hoped that might work this time.”

“You’ve tried it before?”

“Well. Yes, some years ago, I did attempt to venture out.”

“Same thing that just happened?”

“Yes, I’m afraid so.”

“Right. Well, then. I think we should try the… the possession thing. Just try not to go all _The Exorcist_ on me.”

“I… what?”

“Right, you won’t have seen that. Never mind. Just, er, you will give me back?”

“Of course, Crowley! If you doubt it for even a moment, I won’t do it at all.”

“No. No, I- I trust you. Just making stupid jokes. Go ahead.”

Aziraphale regarded him suspiciously for several moments, as if he was waiting for him to betray some kind of doubt. Crowley waited him out; he wasn’t sure if this was safe, at all, but he was prepared to risk it if it meant Aziraphale could see the real world again. At worst, Crowley himself might end up dead, and then he could haunt the shop with Aziraphale forever. That wasn’t an ideal outcome, exactly - not today, not when he still hoped to have many years of life ahead of him - but it didn’t sound so bad, in the scheme of things. It was a risk he was willing to take. He spread his arms wide, offering himself up.

“So how do we do this?”

“I’m not- well, I’m not sure. I suppose, if I’m to… _inhabit_ your body, I should… try to pass through you.”

“Right. Want to try a hand or something, first?”

“Er. Yes. That’s probably-”

Aziraphale pressed his hand to one of Crowley’s, brow furrowed in concentration, and then pushed slightly. Crowley felt that sensation of icy cold, the one he’d experienced before when Aziraphale had accidentally brushed through him instead of against him. And then he had the slightly alarming, distinctly disconcerting experience of watching his own hand flex and curl without his instructions.

“Well,” he managed, his throat suddenly dry. “That seems to be working.”

“Yes. Yes, it does seem to be-”

“Try the rest,” Crowley blurted, afraid he’d lose his nerve, “I’m ready.”

“Are you sure-?”

“Yeah.” He took a deep breath. “I’m happy. With you. I just want you to know that.”

“I’m happy with you, too.” Aziraphale drew his hand back, so they weren’t touching. “Ready?”

“Yeah, stop fussing and get on with it.” Crowley smiled encouragingly.

Aziraphale pressed a gentle, corporeal kiss to his lips, then walked around him. Crowley felt cold breath on his neck - surely a mere habit, because why would a ghost need to breathe? - before Aziraphale stepped forward, _into_ him, and his whole body went cold.

He saw a blinding white light, and then everything went black.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: TRIGGER WARNING, MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. For detailed trigger warnings, please see end notes. If you'd rather skip the chapter entirely, I will put a recap in the beginning notes of the next chapter. Which should be up relatively soon.
> 
> Secondly: I am sorry. This chapter might not make me any friends... It's not a happy one, at all.

_The day was pleasantly warm, and Crowley had a spring in his step as he picked his way through the crowds of Georgian London. With flowers in one hand and a box of chocolates in the other, he got approving smiles from several kindly old shopkeepers who assumed he was going to see his sweetheart._

_He didn't care. There was only one kindly old shopkeeper whose smile he wanted to see - the very kindest and the very oldest. He arrived in front of Aziraphale's new shop and paused to check his appearance in the window. That moment's hesitation might have saved his wretched existence, because that was when he spotted Aziraphale’s visitors._

_“That’s very noble of you,” Gabriel was saying, and Aziraphale’s gaze slipped towards the open doorway where Crowley stood. He couldn’t think of anything to do except to wave, keeping his mounting panic on the inside. Aziraphale turned a shade paler and snapped his attention back to Gabriel._

_“But- only I can properly thwart the wiles of the demon Crowley.”_

_It was a tiny movement, so tiny that Crowley almost didn’t notice it. Aziraphale glanced at the doorway as he spoke the demon’s name, and Gabriel’s head turned just a few degrees. For a second, he thought it was all over; he was about to finally get the smiting he’d been spared in the Garden of Eden. But Gabriel, it seemed, was just thinking._

_“I have no doubt that whoever replaces you_ _will be as good an enemy to Crowley as you are. Michael, perhaps.”_

_Aziraphale still looked worried, so Crowley mouthed, ‘Michael? Michael’s a wanker!’ It wasn’t much of an attempt to lighten the mood, and it didn’t seem to work. Indeed, Aziraphale frowned slightly; Crowley took that as a sign that he should go. He didn’t want Aziraphale replaced, especially not by Michael of all angels, but if he stuck around he risked making things worse for both of them._

_He glanced over his shoulder as he walked away, only to see that Gabriel was standing at the window, gesturing at the crowds passing by the shop. He must have left at just the right moment; the two visiting angels would certainly have spotted him if he’d lingered. He went on his way in a hurry; Gabriel was certain to be heading for his tailor, next, and Crowley had to work out a way to stop Aziraphale from leaving._

* * *

_“Out of the question,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley felt his heart drop. He’d expected reluctance, but an outright refusal was harsh. He knew he was asking a lot of Aziraphale - Holy Water, the one thing a demon absolutely could not survive contact with and the one thing Aziraphale absolutely could not afford to be caught giving him - but he’d hoped they could at least have a discussion about it. Perhaps, if Aziraphale understood why he wanted it, they could come to some sort of agreement on the matter. But the angel didn’t seem to want to discuss the matter at all._

_They fought. They denied everything they’d ever meant to one another, took cheap shots and landed low blows and were generally despicable, and then suddenly the anger reached an unsustainable level and the tension broke. Aziraphale stormed off, and Crowley snarled at the lake before striding away in the other direction. That had gone horribly; he had upset the angel, just as the angel had upset him, and no doubt Crowley would be the one who had to try to make it up to him. It would fall to him to restore their relationship, because he was always the one who couldn’t stay away._

_He wasn’t expecting to run into Beelzebub and Dagon at the park gates, nor to turn and find Hastur and Ligur moving in behind him, cutting off his escape. He redirected his attention back to Beelzebub._

_“Lord Beelzebub. Er, my lords. I wasn’t expecting you…?”_

_“You weren’t suppozzzed to.” Beelzebub looked as bored as ever, but Dagon seemed positively gleeful. There was a hum of demonic anticipation around the whole group that had never, in Crowley’s experience, meant anything good. “Hold him.”_

_He didn’t have time to even start running before Hastur and Ligur pinned his arms, trapping him between them as Dagon advanced on him._

_“This is your original corporation, yes? Shame to ruin it, really, but needs must. Do you need to do your bit first, my lord, or-?”_

_“No, let him feel it firzzzzt. There’ll be time.”_

_“What’s this about-?” But Crowley had barely begun his question when the air rushed from his lungs as Dagon pressed a slim infernal blade between his ribs. “Why-?”_

_“You were caught bringing giftzz to an angel,” Beelzebub told him, as Dagon pulled the knife back with a vicious twist. “This izzz your punishment.”_

_“Discorporation?” It was a more lenient sentence than he could have hoped for. “Bit harsh, isn’t it? I don’t even get a trial?”_

_“Oh, no. The discorporation is just the means to an end,” Dagon told him. “We’ve cooked up something new for you, snake. Our corporations department has made great strides. How are you enjoying the experience of dying?”_

_The Dukes of Hell let go of his arms, and Crowley crashed to his knees on the pavement._

_“Not a huge fan,” he admitted, as his vision began to blur, “ruined this jacket-”_

_“Well, get uzzzzzzzed to it. You’re going to be doing a lot of it, Crawly.”_

_It was a shame he bled out before he could work out what that meant._

* * *

_Crowley raised his head with difficulty and blinked at the small group who’d entered the room. One of them seemed to have a fly on their head, although he might have been hallucinating that; the rest stood slightly back from this apparent leader._

_“Zzzzzeee. Thizzz pitiful creature was once the original tempter. Now look at him.”_

_“You did this to him?” One of the visitors asked, voice trembling. “The fever? The lesions?”_

_“Thizz corporation was created azz an empty embryo, and inhabited at birth. It believes itzzelf human. It izz exzzeptionally vulnerable to all thingzzz that will kill it slowly and painfully.” The stranger smiled at him, but there was no warmth in it. “It’zz probably going blind, too. Izzn’t it, Crowley?”_

_“How do you know… my name…?” But the hallucinations were gone, and it wasn’t long before Crowley was, too, succumbing to smallpox in a miserable poorhouse bed._

* * *

_Crowley dropped into a shellhole, splashing into the disgusting puddle at the bottom with a grimace. He’d caught himself on some old barbed wire in the middle of the stretch of Hell between the two sides’ trenches, and he had a horrible feeling he wasn’t going to see his own trenches again. For that matter, he didn’t think he’d ever see the enemy’s trenches either. If the medics didn’t find him soon, he was going to die in this shellhole._

_“Ah, here we are. The Serpent of Eden. This is what happens to demons who cross Hell.”_

_That was quite profound, Crowley thought, and felt in his pocket for his little notebook. He had no loved ones left at home, nobody to write a farewell to, but in case he got out of there he wanted to write that ‘demons who cross Hell’ line down for one of his war poems. Nobody ever read them but him, of course, but that line had been so clear, it was as if someone had spoken it out loud, right beside him._

_“And he has no idea what he was, Duke Hastur?” Crowley snorted at that; as if a Duke would be caught dead in a shellhole, cowering with the lesser men. Tears sprang to his eyes as he pressed a hand to his wound, already three days old and definitely infected. This was it; he’d dragged himself from crater to crater, searching for living allies or even a living enemy, but he could go no further. He was going to die in this fetid, miserable puddle._

_“No. Look at him. Pathetic. He’s crying - that’s a human thing, it’s their emotions escaping. And he’s a slave to those emotions.”_

_“Duke Hastur? I’d like to go back to the Pit now. If that’s. Er. If that’s all right. I’ll take my torture and behave in future.”_

_“Yes, you will.”_

_There was a squelch somewhere nearby, as if someone had just moved in the mud beside him, but when Crowley turned his head he was alone. A tell-tale whistle arced its way towards him, and Crowley closed his eyes, hoping for a direct hit._

* * *

_Crowley should have been in the cellar, or better yet, a shelter, but the group of orphans and runaway evacuees huddled beneath the house were sobbing with hunger, and there was nobody else to find food for them. He told the older ones to make sure everyone stayed safely below ground, and slipped along the street._

_“Here, watch this. Hear that noise? He doesn’t even know what that means. One of ours, that. The V-1. Doesn’t bother anyone, just as long as you can hear it trundling along like that. But- and we’re going easy on him, here, because the boss wants you to see the look on his face when he realises he’s done for. Here we go - listen to that.”_

_Crowley wasn’t really paying attention to the man in the alleyway, muttering to a couple of friends - the only people out in the middle of an air raid were desperate, dangerous, or both - but he found his ears pricking up all the same. That strange rumble overhead - he’d thought it was a plane, and hoped it was the RAF - seemed to have disappeared, which was a relief._

_Then the building he was walking past collapsed on top of him under the force of a direct hit._

_Crowley gasped for breath through the brickdust, conscious of a heavy weight on his chest._

_“Step out of line again, you miserable excuses for demons, and you could end up just like Crowley here,” he heard._

_“Yes, Duke Ligur. Sorry, Duke Ligur.”_

_Then he wasn’t conscious of anything at all._

* * *

_Crowley lay in his hospital bed, wishing somebody would visit. Wishing someone would touch him. Wishing he’d never been touched at all. Longing for any sort of human contact, something beyond the frightened passage of medical professionals around the edges of the room._

_“Pitiful.” His heart leapt and he struggled to try to sit up, but he was too weak. His breath came in laboured gasps; this had to be the end. He struggled to focus on the figures in the doorway. “You see, if you find filing paperwork for Hell so difficult, this is what awaits you on your own, without Hell. So alone. So weak.”_

_“Please-” Crowley gasped. “Just- my hair-” There was a strand hanging over his face, irritating him, but really he just wanted some kind gesture, some semblance of affection, even from these strangers who so clearly hated him._

_“Oh, we’re not touching you, Crowley. And it’s not because we can’t, either. We just don’t want to.” They knew his name - how did they-?_

_“Please-”_

_“Listen to him. Begging to be touched, like a human with petty emotional needs. He’s going to die here, alone, and then he’s going to come back and do it again. Forever. Because he didn’t do what he was supposed to, and he did what he wasn’t supposed to. So what have you learned, lesser demons?”_

_“We’ll do our paperwork on time.”_

_“We won’t complain.”_

_“Yes, you will, and no, you won’t. Now, let’s go.”_

_Then they were gone, and Crowley was left alone to gasp his last conscious breaths._

* * *

He opened his eyes to find himself on his knees on the floor of the old bookshop, tears rolling down his cheeks. He tried to blink them back, but his body didn’t feel like his own. Then, all of a sudden, he heard his own voice.

“Crowley. Are you with me, my dear? I’m going to let you go, now. I don’t want you to fall. Ready?”

 _Aziraphale_. Of course; he’d told him to possess him. He was _still_ possessing him; it was Aziraphale who was holding Crowley up on his hands and knees, who was taking deep, steadying breaths for him. Gradually, he felt control of his left arm return to him, his elbow buckling for a moment before he managed to catch himself. Then he felt Aziraphale slowly disentangle himself from his essence, separating them back into two people.

For a moment, he knelt there, helpless, and Aziraphale settled on the floor with a sigh. He looked as exhausted as Crowley felt.

“I’m a demon,” Crowley whispered, the moment he could catch his breath, “you’re-”

“An angel,” Aziraphale nodded. “Yes.”

“Did you know?”

“No.”

And that was that. There was a lot to process, and nothing to say until they had. So they sat in silence, on the dusty floor of Aziraphale’s beloved bookshop, each trying to make his own world make sense again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Repeated Crowley deaths - discorporation by stabbing, death by smallpox, death in No Man's Land by infection/shell, death by bomb/falling rubble, death by non-specified disease with AIDS epidemic connotations. Please, if any of this is going to cause you harm or distress, feel free to come back next chapter.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: Another character death (stabbing), if you don't want to read that bit skip the italics. I've stuck a line break in either side to make it easier to spot.
> 
> Recap of last chapter: Crowley remembers arriving at Aziraphale's bookshop the day it opened, and Gabriel almost spots him. He then remembers the argument over Holy Water, after which he was cornered by demons and discorporated. Four memories follow, of his various mortal deaths, and demons arriving to gloat as each new corporation fails. He comes to and realises Aziraphale possessing him is the only thing keeping him more or less upright.  
> "I'm a demon," he says, "you're-"  
> "An angel," Aziraphale confirms.  
> "Did you know?"  
> "No."
> 
> Aaaand that's where we got to. Enjoy!

Crowley sat on the floor for some time before he could trust himself to speak.

“It wouldn’t have mattered, then.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The Holy Water. I left it too late to ask.”

“Oh. You, ah- you remembered that day, too, did you?”

“Yeah.” He sighed. “Beelzebub got me, leaving the park. Discorporated me. They made me live as a human, over and over- a warning to any other demon who stepped out of line.”

“But- how was that a warning?”

“A demon, unaware of his true self, wallowing in misery and powerless to stop it? That’s more horrifying than anything else they could have done, as far as Hell’s concerned.” He wasn’t sure they were wrong. “What happened to you?”

He closed his eyes as Aziraphale answered, letting his mind fill in the blanks until he could almost _see_ the events the angel was describing.

* * *

_Aziraphale hurled the note into the lake and stormed away. He hurried back to the bookshop, afraid that Crowley would come after him to shout, or argue, or plead, and that Aziraphale would give in. He didn’t want to give Crowley the one thing that could destroy him, that could put him beyond the angel’s reach forever. So he hurried back to the shop, and he locked the door behind him, and it wasn’t until he’d almost reached the backroom that he realised he wasn’t alone._

_“Gabriel.” He turned to find that he’d underestimated the number of angels in his shop. “Ah. Michael, Uriel, Sandalphon. What can I do for you?” What had he done, to deserve a visit from four archangels? Even when he’d received his medal, it had only been Gabriel and Sandalphon. More worryingly, it was Michael who stepped forward._

_“Aziraphale. Gabriel tells me you’ve been practicing magic.”_

_“Oh! Er. Well, yes, but- Not real magic, I assure you, nothing occult, or- or- or, or sinister. Just- sleight of hand, you see? Making the audience look at one hand while you do something else with the other. Nothing inappropriate-”_

_“No, I see. Like-” Michael made a vague flourish with her left hand, and Aziraphale smiled encouragingly._

_“Yes, rather like-” That was when the knife in her right hand slid home._

_He looked down in shock, stumbling backwards._

_“I- I don’t understand.” He tried to turn, to retreat into the back room and heal himself up, but Sandalphon and Uriel grabbed his arms and held him. He fought with all the strength of a principality, a warrior of the Almighty, but the archangels had been training for war for six thousand years while he’d been lounging around eating oysters and badgering Crowley for little miracles._

_“You had a visitor, last time I was here,” Gabriel told him, his coldest smile spreading across his face as Michael passed him the knife. “A demon.”_

_“He was here,” Aziraphale spluttered, “to tempt me. He failed-”_

_“Oh, no, Aziraphale. I think you’ve been tempted for a long time. We checked the Earth Observation Files. You’ve been fraternising for centuries,” Michael told him, and Aziraphale half-turned to look at her before realising his mistake and switching his focus back to Gabriel and the knife._

_“Yeah, that’s better for me,” Gabriel told him, and looked him right in the eyes as he stabbed him._

_Aziraphale dropped like a stone, clutching at the little end table beside him and utterly failing to save himself. Uriel, it soon transpired, had only let go of him to accept the knife from Gabriel._

_“So you’re discorporating me?”_

_“Oh, yeah, I should explain. We’re discorporating you. We’re wiping your memory. And then we’re leaving you here, without a corporation, as a warning to others. Any questions?”_

_Aziraphale had plenty, actually, but he didn’t get a chance to ask them as Sandalphon took control of the knife. He lost consciousness mercifully quickly._

* * *

“Angel, I’m so sorry. And then- you were just here? Alone? For over a century?”

“Oh, no. I wasn’t alone for all that time.” Aziraphale sighed. “If I had been, perhaps I could have simply got some reading done.”

“The property guardians,” Crowley realised belatedly.

“Well, yes. But not at first. To begin with, I simply went about my business, and customers would come in. I was an _angel_ , even if I didn’t know that any more - I was used to spreading peace and joy and love - even if I _was_ the only angel who seemed to care about those things.” He sighed. “It was upsetting to see people’s terror when I tried to talk to them. As time went by, fewer people came in - but Gabriel took to bringing angels down to laugh at me.”

“I’m surprised he thought it was impressive enough,” Crowley admitted.

“What could be worse? An angel, ignorant of his true nature, spreading fear and discord and helping no one? Removed from Heaven, stripped of his body. I don’t imagine those angels could think of anything worse. I struggle, myself.”

“I’m sorry,” Crowley told him again. “It must have been horrible.”

“I knew something was missing.”

“Your body.”

“My best friend,” Aziraphale told him softly, and Crowley felt his cheeks grow hot.

And then he realised.

“Oh, Satan. I kissed you. When we didn’t remember.”

“Well, I think I kissed you, actually. At least in part.”

“I shouldn’t have- six thousand years of giving you time, and space, and I blew it.”

“Crowley-”

"I don't expect you to do it again-"

"Crowley." He faltered, meeting the angel's eyes despite the fear that he would find only rejection in them. "I want to. If you still-"

"If _I_ still-?" And that, it seemed, was enough for Aziraphale. 

It was strange, being kissed by a discorporate ethereal being. Crowley didn't know what to do with his hands - had he held Aziraphale, before, when he'd thought he was a departed human? It all suddenly seemed so foggy, as if it had happened a lifetime ago. Would he be able to wrap him in his arms as they kissed, or would all Aziraphale's corporeal focus be on his lips? Would Crowley's hands pass right through him?

Aziraphale answered that question for him, reaching across the small space between their bodies and hauling him closer. Before he knew it, Crowley was practically in Aziraphale's lap, their legs entangled where the angel sat propped against a bookcase.

"I _know_ you now," Aziraphale murmured as they broke apart for Crowley to catch his breath. "How could I not want to kiss you?"

"You didn't know me yesterday. You kissed me then."

"You're very kissable," Aziraphale told him solemnly, "but now I have six millennia of memories to tell me I-" 

Crowley kissed him before he could finish his sentence.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry - I did say updates might slow down a bit! Enjoy, anyway.

There was a lot of kissing before they managed to get back to their conversation. At one point, Aziraphale forgot himself and fell backwards through the bookcase he’d been leaning on, earning Crowley a sudden bump on the head. The angel sat up, all apologies, but Crowley waved them off.

“It’s all right. Teach us to make out on the floor, like teenagers.”

“I’m not sure what that _means_ , my dear, but if you’re suggesting we relocate-”

“Yes. Yes, I am. Before we knock all my memories _back out_ of my head.”

They settled together on the sofa in the back room, but Crowley could tell that Aziraphale had more on his mind than just kissing. That was a shame; Crowley could have gone on kissing him forever, but if Aziraphale needed to talk, he’d do that, too. He remembered, now, _thousands of years_ of conversations, and in many ways talking to Aziraphale, listening to him, felt even better than kissing him. It was familiar; it was safe. Crowley could _do_ that.

“Crowley, dear. Can we talk about this?”

“Oh. Yeah, I- if you don’t want this, this whole kissing each other thing-”

“Not that. I _do_ want that, as long as you do. And we _will_ have to talk about it, but I actually meant what’s just happened. The… memories.”

“Oh. Yeah. I don’t know what happened there.”

“Perhaps my angelic essence cancelled out the infernal miracle your side used, when I possessed you?”

“And mine cancelled out the divine miracles? Could be, I suppose.” Crowley sighed. “How have we put up with them for six thousand years? What did we ever do that was so awful we deserved _that_?”

“They caught us together.” Aziraphale sighed. “We should have been more _careful_ , Crowley!”

“I was as careful as-” He remembered that day, though, the day Aziraphale opened the shop. Gabriel’s head turning, just a fraction. Glancing back to see the archangel staring out of the window. He had doomed them both with his chocolates. “It’s my fault. I’m sorry.”

“No, no. I said _it wasn’t my miracle,_ like an old fool.” He sighed. “I might as well have turned him around and pointed him at you.”

“It’s not your fault.” Aziraphale narrowed his eyes at him, and he shrugged. “Maybe it wasn’t mine, either. Just bad luck.”

“Ineffable,” Aziraphale suggested, with a wry smile, and Crowley felt the sudden urge to throw him out of a window warring with his desire to kiss him again. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I had to see the look on your face-”

“Impossible angel,” Crowley countered, and gave into the latter impulse.

Aziraphale let him kiss him, meeting him with a contented sigh, then abruptly went non-corporeal. Crowley managed to catch himself before he fell through him; he sat back with a grin, intending to tease Aziraphale about his loss of control, but something in Aziraphale's expression stopped him cold. 

"What's wrong?" The angel hesitated for a moment, then shook his head.

"No, nothing's wrong."

"Angel," Crowley insisted, but Aziraphale merely pursed his lips and turned away.

"No, really. I was just sorting through some memories, I suppose."

"Well, if you're sure-"

"I am," came the firm reply, and then Aziraphale got up and wandered into the kitchen.

Crowley wasn't sure whether to follow him or not; there was something strange about his angel's mood, all of a sudden, and he didn't want to push his luck. He turned his attention, instead, to the little plant he'd liberated from his previous home, and which was now sitting on the counter in the shop.

"You'd better grow nicely," he snarled at it half-heartedly, well aware that the _plant_ wasn't to blame for all the confusing emotions surging through him.

"Did you say something, dear?"

"Just… talking to my plant," he called back. "This one doesn't seem to be scared of me."

Aziraphale's head popped around the door, a puzzled frown distorting those perfect features.

"Should it be?"

"My old plants were. Made them grow better, when I put the fear of Crowley into them."

"Oh. You kept plants? Before all this, I mean?"

"Had a small garden," Crowley admitted. "Expect it's long gone. Now, those were some well-trained plants - but this one's not frightened at all."

"It's fortunate, then," Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley couldn't be sure he knew he was speaking aloud. "Well, it's growing beautifully all the same."

"Yes," Crowley mused, "I suppose it is. And it had _better keep it up!"_

He got the distinct impression that Aziraphale only ducked back into the kitchen to hide his laughter, but at least the strange mood seemed to have shifted.

It wasn't until later, as Aziraphale sat watching Crowley eat in a bizarre reversal of their old habits, that Crowley realised.

"Hang on - we never did try going outside."

"Oh. Well. I think perhaps it's all been enough for one day. Maybe we could try tomorrow instead?"

"Yeah, course. Whenever you like, angel."

He bid Aziraphale goodnight not long after that, and for a moment he considered the heady possibility of suggesting the angel join him to sleep off the shocks of the day. But his nerve failed him at the last minute; instead, he just watched Aziraphale plucking books from the shelves for a moment longer before making his way upstairs alone.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay - there are some things it's harder to write when I feel rotten and this turned out to be one of them. However! Hopefully it'll be easier from here. Enjoy!

When Crowley woke the next morning, it was with a vague feeling of something being off. It didn't take long for the events of the previous day - and, by extension, the previous six millennia - to come flooding back to him, and he found himself lingering under Aziraphale's ancient quilt for a few minutes, trying to get his head sorted out.

Knowing that he was a demon had brought a lot of feelings flooding back, feelings of unworthiness that felt old and familiar. They seemed to centre on Aziraphale, on the fact that he had not only allowed Crowley's undeserving eyes to rest upon him, but now his undeserving lips.

Aziraphale was an  _ angel.  _ A far better angel than Crowley had ever been, better than any other angel could ever hope to be. A lot had happened the previous day, so Aziraphale probably hadn't been thinking straight, but now that he knew that, it was only a matter of time before he realised he could do better than kissing Crowley. He couldn't do worse, in fact. And when he worked that out, he would  _ stop _ kissing Crowley, and Crowley was too pathetic and too in love with him to do the sensible thing and stop it  _ now, _ before he could get hurt any more.

He was startled from his thoughts by Aziraphale's head briefly popping through the door, then out again. Crowley barely had time to process the bizarre visual before the angel was back, this time stepping all the way into the room and wringing his hands awkwardly. 

"I'm terribly sorry if I startled you, my dear. I just wanted to make sure you were al- ah, to see if you were awake."

"Oh. Right, OK." The angel was acting strangely, but then they'd both been through a lot in the last few days. "Want to-?" He'd been about to offer part of the bed, but his nerve failed him. "Er, want to talk about something?"

"Ah, well- yes. Yes, actually, I did. May I?" And he perched on the edge of the bed, right next to Crowley, so close Crowley could almost feel the press of the angel's hip against his own leg. He scrambled to sit up, trying to look as if he was being polite, rather than hiding the effect Aziraphale joining him in bed was having on some of his corporation's more human parts. Oh - no, they were all human now. That took some remembering, all of a sudden.

"What did you want to talk about, angel?"

“Well- I don't want to alarm you, my dear...” Crowley was alarmed, and it must have shown. “Oh, no. It's not- I just-” He dropped his gaze to where Crowley’s hands rested on the top of the quilt, then reached out to cover them with his own. "I realise it's all very sudden. This.  _ Us. _ "

"Too fast?" Crowley asked, trying to contain his panic at the thought, but Aziraphale shook his head.

"That's not- oh. No, Crowley. It  _ has  _ been millennia, after all. Our pace could probably be best described as glacial. No, it's just… I'm still discorporated, and you-"

"I don't mind. It's not your corporation I fell in love with, you know." Aziraphale looked stunned by this revelation, and Crowley realised he'd been misunderstood. "I do love it. Your corporation. It's- it was- perfect. Had to be, it had you in it. But… you being discorporated doesn't change how I feel."

"Oh, Crowley. Naturally, I feel the same way. Not that you're discorporated, of course. But I love you too."

"Y- ngk- love?" It took him a moment to realise that Aziraphale had said- "Too?"

"Oh- I'm sorry, dear. Was I not supposed to notice that?"

"Notice-" His own voice rang in his ears.  _ It's not your corporation I fell in love with.  _ "Oh. No. You're allowed to have noticed. One of us should."

"My dear boy," Aziraphale chuckled fondly, "it's a wonder we got away with it all for so long, if it's so hard to guard our tongues."

"Guard  _ your  _ tongue," Crowley grumbled, leaning in to reacquaint himself with the tongue in question. 

When they broke apart, he was surprised to find that he didn't feel so embarrassed any more. "Anyway, we've got all the time in the world, now."

"Ah." Aziraphale sighed. "I'm afraid that's what I've been worrying about."

"I'll call work and tell them I quit. Text in my resignation."

"You still need money, dear. You have to eat, now. And you don't have miracles to rely on."

"Oh. Right." He'd forgotten that. "OK. Short term, then, I'll call in sick for a bit. Unless you want me to give you the space, I mean - it's just that we've got a lot of time to make up for, but if you'd rather I go out-"

"No!" Aziraphale looked almost as startled as Crowley, apparently surprised by his own outburst. "No, I… I'd like you here."

"Well, then. Let me fire off a text-" It was easily accomplished, though Aziraphale watched him with all the awe Crowley remembered from watching the moon landing as a child, more than a lifetime ago. "There. I'm all yours for the next few days."

"All mine," Aziraphale repeated with a smile, "I like that."

Crowley grinned back at him, feeling bold.

"Want to get under the covers and cuddle?"

"Mr Crowley! And we unwed." But Aziraphale slipped beneath the quilt all the same, settling himself with a contented little sigh. "The scandal," he murmured, and the slight purr in his voice was quite enough to make Crowley forget any number of strange circumstances.

"Still a bit sleepy," he admitted, uncertain of what either of them might want from the situation, and Aziraphale nodded his acknowledgement. 

"Then sleep. I'll be right here."

A familiar feeling of peace washed over Crowley, and he closed his eyes, resting safely in Aziraphale's arms.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this chapter!

When Crowley woke, he found Aziraphale pacing. This was a little disconcerting, partly because he kept pacing through Crowley’s suitcase and the closed bedroom door, and partly because it meant Aziraphale was still worrying about something.

“Angel?”

Aziraphale turned, looking extremely guilty, and Crowley sighed.

“What is it, angel?”

“Oh. Oh, nothing, I’m sure it’s nothing.”

“Then you won’t mind telling me what’s bothering you.”

“Oh. I’m just… well, I’m worried about time.”

“I told you, I’ll text work-”

“Not that. I mean…” He came to perch on the bed beside Crowley, keeping his eyes averted all the while. “I mean in a more permanent sense. I’m worried about how much time we have left.”

“We’re eternal beings, angel.” Crowley didn’t understand how Aziraphale could have forgotten about that so soon after rediscovering the fact. “You’re already discorporated, what more can happen?”

“You’re not.” Aziraphale frowned. “What if you die?”

“Well…” He didn’t understand how that was a problem. “I’ll just haunt this place with you. If you don’t mind, I mean. We’ll still be together-”

“That might have worked, if we were mortal. We thought we were, and that… I thought maybe if you stayed, that would be how it ended. The two of us haunting this bookshop, forever. It would have been lovely. But Hell has other plans for you, Crowley. If you get knocked down by a carriage, or catch influenza, or _anything_ like that, you’ll be born again in a new body and you won’t even remember me.”

“That won’t-” He faltered as he realised Aziraphale was right. And, worse than that… “Er. Beelzebub did say something about my corporations being predisposed to things that will kill them horribly.”

“So you’re especially fragile?” Aziraphale sounded more alarmed than ever, and Crowley was beginning to understand his panic. “You’re probably deathly vulnerable to dust, or bookbinding materials, or- how am I supposed to protect you if your own corporation is working against you?”

“Is this why you didn’t want me going to work? In case I get killed?”

“Well- yes-”

“Angel.” Crowley took a deep breath and tried to steady his own nerves. “We found each other once, If something happens to me… we’ll find each other again. It might take a while, but I will. I’m sure of it.”

“All part of The Arrangement,” Aziraphale murmured weakly, and Crowley nodded. “What if Heaven and Hell find out we’re together? If they bring someone down to scare them into line-”

“They don’t need to know that we remember,” Crowley pointed out, “they might even find it funny. Poor, pathetic Crowley, still pining away over that angel even now he’s dead. The ultimate humiliation.”

“Poor Aziraphale,” the angel agreed, “waiting for the human to die and be with him forever, only for them to be ripped away at the last moment.”

“Exactly. I’m not saying them finding out would be _fun_ \- and they might take us away from one another, I suppose- it’d be inconvenient, that’s all. Not insurmountable. I believe in us, angel, it’s the only thing I still trust completely. We’ll find each other.”

Aziraphale still looked doubtful, though, so Crowley gave in and rolled out the big guns.

“Would it make you feel better if we did some research?” It was a stupid question, really; Aziraphale brightened at the very idea.

Three hours later, Crowley had worked his way through all the books Aziraphale had on angels and demons and how to recorporate them. It had been slow going, but there had only been three books, and as it turned out the only known way to obtain a corporation seemed to be through being issued one by whichever side you were on. Aziraphale, meanwhile, had rushed through several volumes on cursebreaking and was now taking copious notes from the medical section, no doubt in the interests of keeping Crowley alive for as long as possible.

They needed a break, and some fresh air; at least, Crowley did, and he didn’t want to leave Aziraphale alone to get it.

“Angel. That possession thing. Let’s try it again.”

“Oh, I don’t know- it doesn’t seem very safe-”

“I trust you, you’ll be more careful with my corporation than I’ve ever been. Don’t you at least want to know if you can get outside? See what’s changed?”

“I- well- if you’re _certain-”_

“If you change your mind, you can just bring me back here. Easy.”

They stood in the space at the centre of the shop, and Crowley grinned, trying to look more confident than he felt.

“Come on, angel. Hop in.” Aziraphale hesitated, and then that now-familiar icy feeling flooded through Crowley’s body.

“Can you still talk while I’m inside you?” Aziraphale asked with Crowley’s voice, and Crowley couldn’t suppress a snort. Oh. That answered that question, then.

“I think so. Yeah.”

“Good. Then perhaps you should take the lead on this. If I just stay in you, and you keep control-”

“I know this London better than you. Yeah, you’re right. Might be a moot point, though, if we can’t get you outside. Shall we give it a try?”

“Yes, please.”

Crowley took a very, very deep breath before opening the shop door and slowly, carefully stepping out. One foot on the pavement, then another… he eased his torso through the doorway and turned to face the door, fumbling with the key in his pocket.

“Well, I expected more fireworks,” Aziraphale murmured, and Crowley breathed a huge sigh of relief.

“You made it.”

“I did. When you’ve locked up, perhaps you could turn around, so I can see-? _Oh._ ” Crowley had locked the door and turned to face the street, and for a moment he felt as though he was seeing it all through Aziraphale’s eyes. Horseless carriages; people talking into small bricks; light and colour everywhere, where for a century or more Aziraphale had known only the dim light of his shop. It was a lot to take in, he was sure.

“Welcome to the future, angel.” He smiled, knowing Aziraphale would feel it rather than seeing it. “Let me give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out a little shorter than anticipated, and I'm sorry for the delay! Enjoy.

They figured out fairly quickly that talking to each other while they were sharing a body was an excellent way to draw unwanted attention. After a few minutes of getting suspicious looks every time Aziraphale got too excited to stay quiet, Crowley had the bright idea to get his phone out. Holding it to his ear didn't entirely eliminate the scowls of passing strangers, but it did seem to help deflect their attention somewhat.

"What do you think?"

"Oh, Crowley, it's splendid. It's- well, it's rather loud, isn't it?"

"It is?" He cast his mind back to the last time he'd walked the streets of London with Aziraphale, and thought it had been just as noisy, albeit in slightly different ways. Then he considered the bookshop Aziraphale had spent over a hundred years in. "Oh. Yes. I suppose it is. Sorry, d'you want to-?"

"No. I mean, er. No, not unless you want to, my dear. I'd dearly love to see the park."

They walked slowly, ignoring the mounting fury of the harried Londoners that streamed around them, and Crowley felt the corners of his mouth pull up into a smile that wasn't his own.

"Don't do that," he groused, but he couldn't help feeling a little more charitable towards the world than usual. This was the Arrangement pushed to the limit; Crowley's corporation was radiating angelic warmth, and at the same time-

"You're walking deliberately slowly to annoy them," Aziraphale doesn't sound disapproving; in fact, if Crowley didn't know better, he'd say he sounded delighted. In fact, he _did_ know better - it was his voice Aziraphale was using after all. Aziraphale _did_ sound delighted.

"You don't disapprove?"

"No, no. I don't work for Heaven any more, and it's not as though you're harming them."

"You don't work for Heaven any more?" It's a terrifying statement, one he never expected to hear. Aziraphale could Fall, for that. But the angel only sighs.

"I don't think our professional relationship could really be described as cordial, after all this."

"Do you think there'll be trouble? If they find out we remember?"

Aziraphale doesn't answer, and Crowley isn't sure he wants to hear it, anyway. He picks up the pace, hurrying around one last corner to reveal-

"Those are the park gates, angel. Welcome back."

"Oh. Oh, I'm almost afraid to go in. Has it changed an awful lot?"

"A little bit, I suppose. Er… new memorial, I think." He had to strain his memory to try to picture how it had looked on that fateful day all those years ago. "And they've replaced the bridge. You'll probably complain about the new one." Crowley smiled fondly. "Then again, you complained about the old one."

"What about the birdkeeper? They don't just leave the ducks to fend for themselves, now, do they?"

"Oh, yeah, they had to get a new birdkeeper," Crowley teased, and found himself gently punching himself in the arm. "Hey, stop that, we'll get funny looks. There's still a birdkeeper, still in that cottage."

"Oh, good. And the ducks?"

"Angel. Would I bring you to a St James's Park without ducks?" They passed through the gates as he spoke, and suddenly Crowley was on autopilot. Aziraphale was the one hurrying from one side of the path to the other, exclaiming over every difference and similarity he encountered, heedless of the people staring at him. It was oddly charming, if a little embarrassing. 

They made a slow circuit of the park, once Aziraphale had calmed down a little and sheepishly relinquished control, and then Crowley stopped to buy a bag of mixed oats and birdseed from an enterprising young person near the lake. 

"Not bread?" Aziraphale asked quietly as they walked towards the water, and Crowley shrugged.

"This is better for them. Right, you take over, I know you like to feed them. The pelicans are way over there, so I think it'll just be ducks for a bit."

"Oh, the pelicans are still here, too? How wonderful."

They stood for a long time, Aziraphale scattering oats across the water as far as Crowley's arms could throw them. He insisted Crowley take a turn, and Crowley obediently hurled a handful of seed at a duck far too hard, making it quack in disapproval and beat its wings against the water.

"Crowley!"

"Habit. Sorry."

"Well, at least you can't just sink them any more."

"Mm. No more little infernal miracles for me."

Aziraphale fed the ducks until they ran out of seed, and then stood still while the disappointed birds checked Crowley's shoes for crumbs.

"Wish I could stop time for you," Crowley blurted out, "let you enjoy this a bit longer. A bit quieter."

"I wish I could stand beside you," Aziraphale countered, "so I could kiss you. But I don't know what would happen if we separated."

"I'll just have to wait until we get home, then," Crowley teased. "It's not the end of the world."

He meant to stroll a little way along the lake, to get them a better view of the pelicans, but it was as if all his limbs had locked in place, an icy cold sensation settling in his stomach.

"Aziraphale?"

"We have to go back to the bookshop. Right away."


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today I am embracing the spirit of Updating Cliffhangers But Not Making Things Better. You're welcome. Enjoy.

The trip back to the shop went quickly, once Aziraphale had released the terror-grip he had on Crowley's limbs. Crowley might not _understand_ Aziraphale's urgency, but he felt it in every nerve and cell of his body. They'd taken something of a meandering route to the park, but Crowley was able to get them back in under ten minutes, through clever use of a shortcut.

The moment they crossed the threshold, Aziraphale stepped out from Crowley's body and strode into the back room, leaving Crowley to lean heavily against the nearest bookshelf and wait for his head to stop spinning.

By the time he regained his equilibrium somewhat - he'd dropped to one knee at some point, which had at least saved him from falling on his face - he could hear Aziraphale moving books around in his personal collection. That was a laugh; the whole shop was his personal collection. But he did have some of his more valuable tomes tucked away back there.

"Crowley?" Aziraphale reappeared in the doorway, clutching a very old book, but he tossed it aside on a nearby table and rushed towards Crowley. "Good lord - are you all right?"

"Fine, why wouldn't I be?" Oh, right, he was still kneeling on the floor. Best not to draw attention to the fact, though; Aziraphale seemed worried enough already. "Are you?" Besides his careless treatment of one of his treasured books, there was the way he'd insisted they hurry home.

"I hurt you, didn't I? The… the possession?"

"I think I just got a bìt dizzy when we separated. Have to try slower, next time, maybe."

"Oh, I _am_ sorry." Aziraphale reached down to help him up, thankfully remaining corporeal to do it. "But, er… there may not be a _next time_."

"It's fine, angel, really-"

"No, I mean… for anything. Time… in general… may be running out."

It took Crowley a moment to process that.

"You don't mean…"

"Yes," Aziraphale told him firmly. "Armageddon."

Ten minutes later, they were both sitting in the back room, and Crowley was holding a cup of tea he didn't remember either of them making. He didn't remember them sitting down, either, or Aziraphale retrieving the book he'd tossed aside in the shop, but there they were and Aziraphale was flicking carefully through that very book, apparently scanning the pages for something.

"The end of the world," Crowley managed weakly, "are you sure?"

"Well, no." Aziraphale looked up from his book with a sigh. "I just remembered… Not that it made sense at the time, although I did think it might mean us - occult or ethereal beings, I mean, not _us_ us, but now I think it _might_ mean us us and I can't remember exactly what it said - wording can be very important in these matters, you see." He began turning pages again, and Crowley gave it a good minute of consideration before determining that that hadn't made any sense.

"In what matters?"

"Prophecies," Aziraphale told him, distracted, and then, "Ah! There it is." He turned the book towards Crowley - who, by now, knew better than to touch - and indicated a short paragraph halfway down a page of similar writing.

_Know thyself, winged beings, and thou shalt know time flieth towards the End. The Beast riseth and the Day of Reckoning shall be soon at hand._

"Oh," said Crowley.

"Yes." Aziraphale sighed. "If _we_ are the winged beings, which seems a reasonable deduction, and we _do_ know ourselves now, since we've recovered our memories-"

"What's this book?" He didn't mean to interrupt, but Aziraphale's anxiety seemed to be catching. "Because you know most books of prophecy-"

"Not this one," Aziraphale told him bluntly. "This is one of only two copies in the world of _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter._ Agnes Nutter's prophecies are renowned for their accuracy, and she appears to be warning _us_ about the end of the world."

"Well… great." Crowley sighed. " _Time flieth._ So what are we talking? Months? Weeks?"

"Er." Aziraphale wasn't looking at him. "You know, there are only two known copies of this book in the world."

"Yes, you sai-"

"Known to me, that is. I'm afraid this is the _only_ genuine copy left. A young man brought it in for some minor restoration work in 1849, and I must say I did a fine job - it's almost as if he left with a brand new book."

"Fascinating, angel, but-" Crowley blinked, momentarily distracted from the world's impending doom. "Wait, you copied-? Angel, you _pirated a book?"_

"No!" He looked, predictably, outraged at the very suggestion. "I merely… kept a backup, for them. This bookshop is my Library of Alexandria, Crowley. And it operates under much the same policy."

"Right. Piracy." He frowned; there had been something else they were talking about. "Wait, stop trying to dodge around it and answer the question."

"Oh, what was it you asked, dear?"

"Weeks or months?"

"Oh. Neither, by my calculations."

"Then - years? We've got years to stop it?"

Aziraphale sighed, entirely more heavily than should have been possible given his lack of corporation.

"Days. _Day_ of Reckoning, soon at _hand_ … five fingers… _five_ days."

"But… angel." It wasn't enough time; they'd just found each other, there wasn't enough _time;_ he could spend another six thousand years, even an eternity with Aziraphale, and it wouldn't be enough. "How are we supposed to stop it in five days?"

"It's the Great Plan," Aziraphale told him, and Crowley knew what he was going to say before he said it. "It's ineffable."

"Angel, don't-"

"I don't think we _can_ stop it."


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think this is quite smutty enough to warrant an E rating but the characters took over and, with days to go until Armageddon, there ended up being some ghost sex I hadn't expected to feature. It's not long or detailed but if you'd rather skip it, I'll stick a plot recap in the next chapter's notes so you can do that and not miss anything. I'm not here to make people uncomfortable!
> 
> Anyway. Enjoy!

Crowley glared up at the ceiling of Aziraphale's darkened bedroom. Downstairs, he could hear the discorporated angel wandering around, occasionally bumping into things.

The world was about to end, and Aziraphale didn't seem to want to stop it. He was just giving up, surrendering to whatever fate might await a discorporated angel and his extra-mortal demonic associate when the world came to an end. Crowley didn't understand how he could do that. They had so much to live for, so much to fight for… Maybe his angel just needed reminding of all he stood to lose.

He padded downstairs before he could lose his nerve, before he could convince himself that Aziraphale just didn't consider what they had worth saving- oh,  _ blast,  _ he was only halfway down the stairs and the doubts were already starting to worm their way in.  _ Was _ Crowley worth saving? God hadn't seemed to think so. Hell had tossed him aside like so much rubbish. Perhaps Aziraphale just wanted to wait for the end of the world so he could plead his case to Heaven, prove himself to the Heavenly Host in the war and be welcomed back home. 

That didn't sound right. Aziraphale loved the Earth, loved humanity… loved Crowley. He'd said so, hadn't he? So all Crowley had to do was remind him that some things were worth going up against the Great Plan for.

He stepped into the pool of light beside Aziraphale's desk and waited for the angel to notice him. It didn't take as long as he'd expected; Aziraphale could get utterly lost in his reading, but tonight he closed the book within seconds of Crowley's arrival.

"Crowley. Is everything all right?"

"Yeah." He meant to say something about the world, about how many wonderful things were in it and how uncertain their futures would become if the world ended in five days' time. He meant to say something powerful enough to convince Aziraphale to go against the plan with him. What he actually said was, "I missed you."

"It's only been a few minutes." But Aziraphale smiled fondly, stood and came to take Crowley's hands in his own. "How can I fix it?"

"Kiss me?"

Aziraphale did, and Crowley shivered for reasons completely unrelated to the cold as the angel's hand slipped through the fabric of his pyjama top to brush bare skin.

"Oh! I'm sorry-" Aziraphale pulled away, blushing, and Crowley just wanted him back. He wanted Aziraphale to touch him.

"Don't be. I liked- I'd like-  _ angel,  _ we only have five days."

"Three," Aziraphale corrected him softly, "I think the five days started when we remembered-"

"-three days, then," Crowley blundered on, "and it doesn't matter if you don't want to, that's fine, but if you do- if you want- if it's physical, it has to be now, doesn't it? No time to… court you, or whatever, and I'm sorry about that, I just- if you want that, you can have it. Me. Touch me. I'd like it. If… if you would."

"Oh,  _ Crowley.  _ You've been courting me for almost six millennia. I'm only sorry I can't return the favour." His hands were already coming up to smooth over Crowley's pyjama shirt. "I don't know if I can stay corporeal, if- but I'd like-" His finger circled a button, speculative, and Crowley nodded frantically until Aziraphale unfastened it. "Shall we go to bed, my dear?"

They scrambled onto the bed together, Aziraphale's clothes melting away as Crowley touched them, and before long they were both bare and desperate in the darkness. Crowley could see by the light of a faint glow that seemed to be emanating from his angel, and what he saw looked perfect. Aziraphale was exactly as Crowley remembered him from rivers and Roman baths, centuries ago, just without his corporation. Crowley felt a little self-conscious, in a body he'd only had for a few decades, one that wasn't exactly as he remembered it being for most of history.

"I have never wanted anyone so much in my life," Aziraphale whispered, as if he'd read Crowley's mind, and then he kissed him and their bodies were touching and-

Aziraphale passed right through him. No matter how many times he tried to touch Crowley, no matter how Crowley tried to touch him, the moment Aziraphale got too excited and lost focus he ceased to have corporeal form. At last he flopped back onto the mattress beside Crowley with a frustrated huff.

"I'm sorry. I don't- I  _ want-  _ I can't seem to stay solid."

"It's OK." Crowley patted his shoulder, which was annoyingly corporeal, now they were giving up. "We don't have to-"

"I want to, I've wanted you for so long-" Aziraphale's voice cracked on the word and he had to pause to collect himself. "And now we don't have time for me to work it out for you. I'm sorry, Crowley."

"Hey. It's OK." A brilliant idea occurred to him as he spoke; it was amazing how arousal could stimulate the brain when the angel he loved was so desperate for him and still, somehow, just barely out of reach. "Wait. When we went to the park, you could feel things, right? Things I felt in my body - sun on my face, wind in my hair?"

"Er." Aziraphale seemed baffled by the change of subject. "Yes."

"Well… then you should get inside me."

"I can't-  _ oh. _ " He caught on fast. "Oh. Really?"

Two minutes later, Crowley would have appeared, to any outside observer, to be alone in his bed, his hand working curiously under the sheets. But he wasn't alone. Aziraphale was right there, sharing control, sharing sensations, the two of them approaching climax in perfect sync.

And when they fell back against the pillows, Aziraphale carefully disentangling himself from the wrung-out mess of Crowley's body, Crowley took the opportunity to speak.

"We have to stop Armageddon. Bollocks to the Great Plan, this can't end so soon."

"Are you trying to  _ seduce _ me into turning away from Heaven?"

"Heaven discorporated you. I think you're fired. But Earth- we still have Earth. Together." He was still a little breathless, but he knew he was making sense. Hopefully Aziraphale would see that, too. "We have to save it. We have to  _ try." _

Aziraphale was silent for a long moment. 

"Your corporation needs to sleep," he finally declared, "I'll see if I can find us a place to start." Then he kissed him, rolled out of bed, and disappeared downstairs towards his books.

Crowley couldn't help feeling a little smug about that.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. It's been hard to focus and I had "Blood and Straw" pretty much ready to go. Hopefully future chapters won't take as long, but I hope you'll forgive me if I end up posting a few one-shots on the way. They're easier to get out, sometimes!
> 
> Anyway, apologies for the short chapter but I thought maybe you'd rather have it than not. Enjoy!

When Crowley woke, he spent a few minutes cleaning up his corporation and then found himself hesitating at the top of the stairs. What if Aziraphale hadn't found anything they could use to save the world? What if he'd just been humouring Crowley and hadn't even looked? What if it was too late?

Some of his fears were allayed when he reached the ground floor and found Aziraphale making frantic notes from _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies._

"Any luck, angel?"

"Crowley!" For a moment, the results of the search hardly seemed to matter as Aziraphale's face lit up at the sight of him. "Yes! Well. Sort of. There are a number of prophecies here that should lead us right to the Antichrist - and if we find him, perhaps we can, er... stop him."

"How?"

Aziraphale shook his head. "No point worrying about that if we can't decipher these prophecies. They sound like the names of places, some of them, but I haven't the faintest idea where they are."

"Well, what have we got?" Crowley pulled his phone out as he spoke. Aziraphale frowned at him, but obediently picked up a piece of paper.

“Er… well, this one’s about the Antichrist, I think. _Sum say It cometh in London Town, or New Yorke, butte they be Wronge, for the place is Taddes Fild..._ _Stronge inne hys powr, he cometh like a knight inne the fief, he divideth winde into 4 partes, he bringeth the storme._ ”

Crowley blinked. “For the place is…?”

“Taddes Fild,” Aziraphale repeated, pointing it out on the page, and Crowley typed it into his phone.

“Google says _Did you mean Tadfield?_ Why not. It’s… in Oxfordshire, apparently. Little village. Anything else?”

“Er… _Behind the Eagle’s Nest a great Ash hath fallen, and there too shall fall the world?_ ”

Crowley searched for _Eagle’s Nest._ “Well, that’s apparently in Germany. We don’t have time to get to Germany.”

“Right. Well. Er… _Where the Hogg’s back ends the young beast will take the world…”_

Crowley typed _hog’s back_ and was relieved to see a familiar name on the first page of the results.

“Hogback Wood, Hogback Lane… Tadfield. That can’t be a coincidence. Oh, and look!” He held out the phone to Aziraphale, who squinted suspiciously at the tiny map on the screen. “See that, there? That’s a US airbase. Nothing says _eagle_ like the Americans.”

“Crowley, that’s- how did you-? But that means we still have a chance. The world _can_ be saved, if- well, if we can just work out how.”

“Well, we’ll have to work it out on the way. Come on, we’ll hire a car or something. Not like I’m going to need my life savings if we don’t pull this off.”

“Crowley-”

“I know, I know. If I had savings I wouldn’t have ended up living here. Still, I think I can manage the car rental-”

“No, Crowley, I mean- it’s too dangerous for you to be out there, driving around in one of those horseless carriages. Anything could happen - you could _die._ I could lose you.”

_It izz exzzeptionally vulnerable to all thingzzz that will kill it slowly and painfully,_ Beelzebub’s voice buzzed in his head, and Crowley’s stomach turned over. Aziraphale was right; he could die out there, he could lose Aziraphale - and what would even happen to his angel if Crowley got discorporated while Aziraphale was possessing him? But they only had one chance at this; one chance to save the world.

“Angel, if we don’t try, we’re all dead anyway.”

“Well, if you put it like that…” Aziraphale hesitated, then stepped forward, close to Crowley, and held out the book. “Permission to, er, come inside?”

“You’re more than welcome, angel.” He took the book, and braced himself as Aziraphale moved to share his body again. “I think that’s getting easier.”

“Good. Right. Where are we getting this vehicle, then?”

Three hours later, they were on the M25.

“I don’t like this at all,” Aziraphale told him, not for the first time since they’d slipped behind the wheel, and Crowley sighed.

“I’m only ten miles over the limit, angel, we’re fine.”

“ _Over_ the limit?”

“Do you want the world to survive, or not?”

“I’d like _us_ to survive with it!”

Crowley shook his head fondly and eased up on the accelerator. His angel had a point, much as he hated to admit it.

It was harder than he’d thought, juggling his own thoughts and Aziraphale’s occasional fidgeting as well as following the directions his phone kept reading out.

“How does it know where we are?” Aziraphale kept asking, and Crowley didn’t know where to begin explaining the concept of GPS, so he didn’t try.

By the time they reached Ye Olde Tadfield Arms, a pub that had been converted into a hotel, it was beginning to get dark, and Crowley dreaded to think how many hours they’d wasted going in circles around the winding lanes of the English countryside. He booked them a room and carried _The Nice and Accurate Prophecies_ up with him in the lift. Aziraphale tried to flick to a page, and Crowley let him, but he had to draw the line when Aziraphale actually pointed to a prophecy with Crowley’s finger.

“Stop it, I look like a crazy person,” he muttered, glad that they were alone in the lift.

“Then I’ll show you in the room.”

They’d barely got the door shut before Aziraphale was pointing his finger at the book again.

“ _Ye may sleepe in Tad’s Arms, and in eech other's, for no trouble be brewed there.”_

"Great. And we've still got…"

"...About a day, probably, by the time we wake up tomorrow." Aziraphale took a deep, steadying breath for them both. "We'd best get some sleep."

When he slipped beneath the unfamiliar sheets and settled his head on the pillows, Crowley found himself hugging himself tightly. He wasn't sure if he had wrapped his own arms around himself, or if Aziraphale was embracing him. One way or another, it felt good to be held, here at the end of the world.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *arrives at Armageddon 15 minutes late with Starbucks*
> 
> Sorry, gang. It's been a weird few weeks... months?... days?... hasn't it? But here's a chapter. Enjoy!

When Crowley woke, there were only a few hours left before the end of the world was due.

“At least, by my calculations,” Aziraphale told him apologetically. “I wasn’t sure how to go about waking you, or if I even should-”

“I’ve never slept so long in my life. Well, not this life, anyway.” He swung his legs out of bed and hurried to dress.

“It must be exhausting, having me occupy your body as well. Quite understandable.”

“Well, it’s hardly the best time for a long nap!” He grabbed the book and started for the lift again, Aziraphale taking control of his arms so he could flick through the pages and double-check their destination.

“Well, that… that all seems to point towards that airbase you found. I suppose we ought to get there as fast as possible.”

“And when we get there?” Crowley asked. “What do we do?”

The lift doors opened, sparing Aziraphale the trouble of answering, but Crowley got the distinct impression that the plan was rather more along the lines of _get there and see what happens_ than he’d like. It was a short drive to the airbase, and Crowley parked just out of sight of the gate.

“Why aren’t you getting closer?”

“It’s an airbase, Aziraphale.” Aziraphale didn’t immediately respond, and it took a moment for Crowley to realise the problem. “You don’t know what an airbase is. Of course you don’t, how could you- look, it’s… a military encampment. They don’t just let people turn up. We’re going to have to go around and see if there’s a way in.”

“Oh. Well, then. Lead the way.”

The large tree that had fallen wasn’t hard to spot, and it had brought down a section of fence with it.

“Angel. If this doesn’t work- if something goes wrong, or something happens to me, I need you to find a body - just take the nearest living creature and get yourself home. I’ll find you, just- just get yourself home.”

“Oh, Crowley. That’s very sweet, but the world’s ending, dear.”

“Oh. Oh, right. Yeah. Well, here’s hoping we don’t get shot, then.”

They crossed the boundary with some trepidation, and then followed the sound of shouting until they met a group of children with their bikes.

“All you soldiers. You should all just go to sleep,” one of them said, and the soldiers obediently slumped to the floor.

“Would that be the, ah…?”

“Yes, angel,” Crowley murmured under his breath, “I’m guessing that would be the Antichrist.”

“Well, are you going to-?”

“Excuse me,” the boy called out, “but why are you two people?”

“Er. My friend died,” Crowley told him, “I’m giving him a lift.”

“That’s kind of you,” Adam admitted, “but stupid. You should both go back to being yourselves.”

Crowley felt Aziraphale leave him, felt the loss in some strange, intangible way he couldn’t describe, and then he felt something else. _Power._ He closed his eyes for a moment, and could swear that he saw the shape of wings rising and falling, like the after-image of a camera flash. _His_ wings, or Aziraphale’s. It was impossible to say; they’d become almost one unit, with all this possession and such. When he opened his eyes, Aziraphale beamed delightedly at him.

“Oh, _that’s_ better. I’m an angel again!”

“And I’m a demon,” Crowley confirmed solemnly, before turning to the boy. “And you- sorry, what’s your name?”

“Adam,” the Antichrist told him, “and this is Pepper, Brian, Wensleydale and Dog.”

“Right. Good, right, yeah, nice Hellhound, very nice Helly Hellhound. Look, Adam, we’d really rather you didn’t destroy the world.”

“I’m going to remake it again. It’s going to be better.”

“Adam, God Herself made this world. Do you really think you can do a better job, on your very first try? Are you sure it’s worth all of this being destroyed?” Aziraphale tried to reason with him, and Adam faltered.

“Are you sure it’s worth destroying your home, your family?” Crowley continued, seizing the opportunity. “Only I know I’d have to be pretty sure, if I was going to do something that would hurt Aziraphale.”

“I don’t want to hurt my friends,” Adam told him, “I don’t want to hurt Lower Tadfield, or Greasy Johnson, or any of the world, really. But these voices in my head, they keep telling me I have to.”

“But you can say no to them, Adam.” Aziraphale sounded very certain, very reassuring, and if Crowley hadn’t known the angel had no more insight into the situation than Crowley himself, he would never have guessed. He just hoped he was right, because if he wasn’t, they might have to kill the kid to stop Armageddon, and he really didn’t know if he could do that.

He was still worrying about that when a young couple emerged from one of the buildings, and the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse appeared from the other direction. Adam and his friends turned their attention to this new threat, and Aziraphale stepped closer to Crowley.

“So, we have our powers back.”

“Yes.”

“Anything we can do to help?”

“I don’t know. I don’t even know if we should be helping him, or stopping him.”

They turned back to the children at the sound of a scream, afraid that the Horsemen had got the upper hand - and found that War was gone. The girl - Pepper - dropped an oddly familiar-looking sword and stepped back.

“Is that…?”

“Yes. Yes, I think it is.”

They watched in amazement as the four children faced down the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and lived to tell the tale, until only Death was left.

“I CANNOT BE DESTROYED WHILE MORTALS LIVE,” Death intoned, “I AM MORTALITY.” Then he turned his ancient face towards Crowley. “AT LEAST I DON’T HAVE TO DEAL WITH _YOU_ ANY MORE.”

“Yeah, likewise,” Crowley muttered.

Death vanished, and the whole assembled group let out a deep sigh of relief.

“Did I stop it?” Adam asked, as the skies began to clear and the wind died down.

“Yes, I think you did,” Aziraphale told him weakly, and Crowley turned to find the angel patting down his old-fashioned waistcoat. _Oh._ Crowley had regained his demonic powers - he could feel them crackling through him, reestablishing themselves in a body which, he now realised, looked slightly different to the way it had when he’d arrived at the airbase - but Aziraphale hadn’t had a body at all for over a hundred years. No wonder he looked so bewildered by his own corporation.

“Are you all right, angel?”

“They’re not going to be happy, are they?”

Lightning flashed, and Crowley winced. _Speak of the devil, and the Archangel Fucking Gabriel will appear._ Moments later, the tarmac bubbled and Beelzebub themself emerged beside the archangel, the two of them exchanging barely-civil nods before storming towards the Antichrist.

“What’s the hold-up? Why isn’t the world ending? You had _one job_ , kid-” Gabriel stopped abruptly as he spotted Aziraphale. “What the-”

“Your traitor’zzz got his body back,” Beelzebub observed smugly; then their gaze landed on Crowley.

“ _Your_ traitor seems to know who he is,” Gabriel snapped back.

“Well, I suppose we know whozzze fault it izz,” Beelzebub glared at them both, and they waved cheerfully, “that Armageddon Armag-izzn’t.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Gabriel pointed out, and Beelzebub turned the glare up several levels.

“Boy,” Beelzebub began, “don’t you want to rule the world? All you have to do is end it.”

“I don’t want to end the world,” Adam told them firmly, and Wensleydale piped up from beside him.

“Actually, we quite like it.”

“Nobody cares if you like it or not, pipsqueak,” Gabriel insisted, “it’s the Great Plan.”

“The- the Great Plan?” Aziraphale interrupted, and Crowley wanted to shake him. _Stay down, stay quiet, they’re going to kill you._ “Is that the same as the Ineffable Plan?”

“It’s… the Great Plan.” Gabriel looked confused. “It’s just the Great Plan.”

“You don’t know,” Crowley realised suddenly. “But what if you think you’re following the Great Plan, but really you’re working _against_ the Ineffable Plan. I bet that wouldn’t end well for you.”

Their bosses faltered. Gabriel shot Beelzebub a look; Beelzebub shrugged. The two turned away and had a huddled discussion before turning back.

“We need to get back to our respective armies,” Gabriel told them, as if he wasn’t beating a hasty retreat.

“Your infernal father will be informed,” Beelzebub told Adam, and the boy stepped backwards. It brought him into range of Crowley, so Crowley put a steadying hand on his shoulder. Adam didn’t seem entirely reassured, but at least he didn’t seem as likely to pass out.

Unfortunately, that drew the attention of one irate senior demon and one archangel right back to Crowley and Aziraphale.

“And azz for you, traitorzzz…”

“You’re going to regret this, big time,” Gabriel snarled.

“If you thought last time wazzzz bad…”

Aziraphale stepped closer to Crowley and took his free hand; Crowley squeezed gently. If they’d only knowingly had a few days together, it had been worth it, hadn’t it? He hoped Aziraphale thought so too, because there wasn’t much they could do except stand there and accept their fate.

“What do they mean?” He looked down at Adam in surprise; he would have thought the kid had enough of his own troubles to worry about.

“Our sides punished us for being friends,” Aziraphale told him gently, “but we’re still friends anyway.”

“They shouldn’t do that,” Adam frowned. “They should just leave you alone from now on.”

And Beelzebub sank wordlessly into the floor, Gabriel vanishing in a flash of light.

Angel and demon stared at the spot where their superiors had disappeared.

“It can’t have been that easy,” Aziraphale murmured in disbelief - and that was when Crowley hit the floor, every newly-restored demonic sense screaming at him.

“He’s coming. Satan himself is coming.” He took a deep breath, fighting against the pain. “I regret to inform you all that we are _fucked._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With special bonus glares to RosiePaw and egmon73, who _clearly read my notes_. Just kidding, well done you two!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, everyone. Lockdown blues, you know? This story is pretty much an object lesson in 'Write Your Whole Story Before You Start Posting, Hope'. I'm afraid it might have lost a bit of steam towards the end but I hope you'll enjoy it anyway!

Satan, when he came, emerged from the tarmac as a towering beast - and then everything stopped, for a moment. Satan paused, mid-roar, and Crowley flexed his wings experimentally.

“Oh, I’d almost forgotten I could do that. Remember Paris, angel?”

“How could I forget?” Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “There’ll be time for a trip down memory lane later. At least- er- I’d really like it if there was.”

“Working on it, angel.” Crowley turned to the Antichrist, the only other person who hadn’t frozen along with the rest of time. “Adam. You’ve done a brilliant job so far, and we’re right here with you. But this is something only you can do.”

“What do I have to do?” Adam was staring up at the towering figure. “That’s not my dad, I don’t want him to be my dad.”

“Then tell him that,” Aziraphale suggested, “tell him how you feel.”

“He’s right,” Crowley agreed, and couldn’t quite keep the besotted expression from his face. “He usually is. But reality is listening to you, right now. You can use that against him.”

“I just… I just tell him how I feel?”

“Yeah. You’re a kid, shouting at adults should come naturally, right?” That coaxed a tiny grin from the Antichrist. “I’m going to start time. Ready?”

“Not really.”

“Jolly good,” Aziraphale interrupted, “it never does to feel _too_ ready. That’s how you get complacent. Here we g- oh, do hold on a second, Crowley.”

Demon and Antichrist stared in mute bafflement as Aziraphale stepped forward to pick up the flaming sword from where it had been dropped.

“Well, it doesn’t hurt to have a plan B,” he told them, “go on.”

Crowley restarted time, and Adam didn’t waste a second of it before unleashing a torrent of pre-teen fury towards Satan, drowning out the beginning of an infernal scolding.

“Dads don’t just ignore you for eleven years and then turn up to have a go at you. If I’m going to be in trouble with my Dad, it’ll be my real dad who was there for me, and picked me up when I scraped my knee, and taught me to ride a bike, and read me bedtime stories.”

“But- _I AM YOUR FATHER!”_ Satan bellowed, and Adam screwed up his face to bellow back.

“You’re not my dad, you never were!”

And reality listened.

Satan disappeared in a rather dramatic cloud of smoke, and out of the smoke drove a middle-aged man who must be Adam’s earthly father. Before they knew it, Crowley and Aziraphale were standing alone, watching the four children - and the smallest Hellhound Crowley had ever seen - pile into his little car and jostle for position before it drove away.

“Well,” Crowley began, and then closed his mouth as he realised he didn’t know what to say.

“Do you think that’s worked?” Aziraphale ventured, after a moment, “the world’s safe? _We’re_ safe?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think it is. I think… I think we’re safe.” He could hardly believe it himself. “We don’t have to hide anything any more.”

“No. No, we don’t.” Aziraphale bit his lip thoughtfully. “I’ve got my corporation back.”

“Yeah.” Crowley reached out to put a hand on the angel’s arm. “How does it feel? Good? Weird? Do you need to sit down, or-?”

“I was wondering, ah, how you’d feel about testing it out, actually.” Aziraphale darted a glance at him from beneath his eyelashes. “We could go back to the Tadfield Arms, perhaps.”

“Oh.” Crowley almost had to sit down himself as his blood seemed to rush south. “Ngk. Yeah.”

Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand and led him off the airbase, the book of prophecies forgotten on the tarmac. 

A sudden breeze ruffled the pages as a young couple emerged from one of the buildings, catching the eye of the young woman. Trusting her instincts - for perhaps the first time in her life - she hurried across to retrieve the book, smiling when she saw the page it had opened to.

_When all is said and all is done, within Tad’s arms once more,_

_Two winged hearts will become one, with all the world in store._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


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